The Paradise Problem Read Online Christina Lauren

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Chick Lit, Contemporary Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
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“I can see that,” West says softly, with a meaning that’s not so hidden anymore. He reaches up, brushing my hair off my shoulder. “Come here,” he says, coaxing me down beside him, pulling me into his arms. With a shift of our bodies, he rolls me to my back.

He hovers over me, sending a hand over my hip and up to my breast, kissing me with the kind of command and tenderness that had me digging into his pants the first time. But when I reach for him, he shifts his hips away.

“Don’t tempt me again, Green. I barely pulled out in time back there.”

I laugh, cupping the back of his head. “You know that doesn’t work anyway.”

“It felt like an important compromise.” He pulls me into his chest, letting me have one firm arm for a pillow, the other as a blanket.

“Liam?”

He goes still. “Yeah?”

“I had the best night of my life tonight.”

He’s silent in response for a few seconds, and then I feel the lingering press of his lips to the crown of my head. “Me, too.”

The chorus of nighttime rises around us: waves and insects, wind rustling through trees.

“Anna?”

Goose bumps spread down my arm at the quiet intimacy in his voice. “Yeah?”

“You called me Liam.”

“I did.”

“I liked it.”

“Good.” I tilt my face to his, silently asking for one more kiss. He delivers it and then some, before tucking my head beneath his chin.

And outside, in the warm circle of Liam Weston’s arms, I fall asleep.

Twenty-Six

LIAM

I’m not sure whether I ever fully fall asleep, but I’m not suffering. For a few hours I’m in that syrupy, hazy place, with waves crashing nearby, cool, humid air pressing on my overheated skin, and Anna warm and asleep in my arms. Dreams flirt with the edges of my mind: mouths coming together, her soft cries, the wet sounds of our sex, the feel of her beneath me.

Even when I slowly rise to full consciousness, I stay motionless, listening to her quiet sleep noises, squeezing her when she murmurs, wondering whether I could carry her the entire way back to the bungalow. Lying for hours on a rattan mat on a wood-plank patio isn’t awful, but this very same position would be so much better in a bed.

Anna sleeps facing me, both her arms tucked against her chest and by default against my chest, too. She barely moves once her face is firmly pressed to my neck, almost like a button has been pressed in her brain that lets her fully power down. Has she slept like this with someone else? She must have, of course. The thought lands with a slice, a quick, sharp paper cut, and I have to shove it away. To me, everything with her is so raw, so candid; that transparency in both conversation and sex is new to me, almost embarrassingly so. I want to lie to myself and think it’s the same for her.

“I can hear you thinking,” she mumbles sleepily into my throat. “But if you’re going to freak out, can you do it later? You’re so comfortable.”

I laugh, kissing the top of her head. “I’m not freaking out. Just listening to the wilderness wake up.”

Insects and birds are coming to life, whirring, chirping, calling to each other from every measure of distance, and at the suggestion of creatures out in the darkness, Anna goes rigid in my arms. And then she presses forward, curling inward, like she’s trying to climb into my clothes. “Oh God, please don’t mention wilderness.”

I lift my head, scouting the immediate vicinity. “Doesn’t seem like anything out there is very close to us.”

“Not helping!”

“I do think we should head back, though. We might want to slip into the bungalow before anyone happens upon us.” Specifically, my father. Nothing would more effectively kill the vibe than hearing his voice right now.

Anna wiggles some more, but this time it seems to be less about escaping from bugs and more about finding ways to create friction between our bodies. “I don’t want to get up.” Her wiggling turns into grinding, and she sneaks a hand between us, palming my erection. Warmth bleeds into my limbs, and I press forward, dizzy with a rush of desire.

She kisses up my neck. “I like your morning boners.”

I groan, but not out of pleasure. “Green, I think I need to tell you: the word boners is…”

She pulls back to look at me. “You don’t like ‘boners’?”

“I enjoy my boners. I like the word less.”

“What’s better? ‘Hard-on’? ‘Woody’? ‘Stiffy’?”

“These are all terrible.”

A frown line forms on her forehead. “Devastating.”

“Then I may as well get it out there that ‘horny’ can also go in the bin.”

“You’ve just ensured that these words will now be staples in our marital relationship.”

“I think I can handle hearing them for another four days.” As soon as I’ve said it, we both go silent. Me, because an image has suddenly invaded my thoughts—dropping Anna off at her apartment in Los Angeles, seeing her figure shrink in the rearview mirror—and I don’t like the brief shadow it sends through me.



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