Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
“You kill me.” And he kisses me ferociously, grabbing at my breasts, pushing me higher up the wall. I yank and tug at his hair, urging him on, at the same time praying that I’m the only person in this world who can kill him. I become more frenzied at the thought. “I have to go,” he mumbles around our manic kiss. “And whatever you’re thinking right now, stop thinking it.” He tears himself away, his labored breaths bursting in my face. He’s got me, and I look away guiltily. Not for long, though, because he forces me back. “Understand?” he affirms with grit.
I nod as best I can with his long fingers gripping my face, and he kisses me, this time softly.
“Don’t go,” I beg, hating the need in my tone. I don’t want to become clingy. I don’t want to be that woman. And yet my hand still reaches for his softening cock, manipulation taking over.
“I’ll be back later.” His voice is strained as he knocks my feeling hand away and locates his jeans.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t discuss business with my wife.” His lip quirks as he pulls them up his legs, and I scowl. “Anyway, you’re busy yourself.”
“Doing what?”
“Organizing our wedding.”
Oh, yes. That.
After pulling a black T-shirt over his head, he strokes through his wet hair, and I all but dribble at the sight of my man looking casual. I smile to myself. He’s not dressed to kill, so to speak.
He goes to the bathroom and appears a few seconds later with the trash can full of glass. “I’ll put a call in to Father McMahon.”
“I’ll do it.” I wander to the dressing table and sit down. “You’re busy killing half of Miami.”
A small, inappropriate, dark laugh, and the sound of the door closing. I stare into the mirror at my flushed cheeks. “And so my sentence begins,” I whisper, studying myself as I think. And think. He never mentioned that I couldn’t, so I’m going to assume that I can. I go to the bed, get comfortable, and call my boy.
“Mom?” he says in answer, sounding surprised. And then he quickly corrects himself, and I know it’s because he must be around Hilary. “I mean Rose.”
God love him. The mom thing has happened naturally over the past three years of visits to St. Lucia, and I never once questioned it because Hilary was never around to have her feelings hurt. But the fact of the matter is, I am his mom. I deserve that title.
“Hey, kid,” I quip, smiling at the ceiling, hearing scuffling and bangs in the background. “You okay?”
“No, my hamster escaped.”
Oh? A rodent on the loose? I shudder. “How?”
“I don’t know. I’m always careful to lock the door of his cage.” More bangs. “I’m checking the kitchen cupboards. He likes cereal.”
“Nice.” I grimace. “You settled back into school?”
“Yeah, it’s good.”
“I can’t believe you’re in eighth grade.” He’s growing up too fast, the years rolling, and that sucks even more because I feel like he’s only been in my life for a second.
Daniel bypasses it all. “When can I come visit again?” he asks, and I smile. Historically, I’ve only seen him every couple of months, but each year the visits are becoming more frequent, his eagerness to spend as much time as he can with us in St. Lucia the best kind of reward for his absence from my life for so many years. My fear that he would reject me was very real. I never dared hope that he would actually embrace me.
My smile quickly falls when I remember where I am. “You only just got home a couple weeks ago.” I take no pleasure from how this must make Hilary and Derek feel. None at all. But for me? It’s life.
“I’ve got to beat Mister on the water before I’m fifteen or I’ll lose the bet.”
I laugh. “You’ll never beat Mister.” Danny’s been jet skiing most days for eighteen years. If he wasn’t a mafia boss, he’d be a pro. “Tell me about school,” I order.
“Really, Mo—” a beat. “Rose.”
“Really. I want to hear if you’re destined to be top of this class too.” He’s athletic, a total brain box and, of course, fucking beautiful. I dread to think of all the hearts he’ll crush when he starts dating. If he starts dating. I don’t want him to start dating.
“It’s too early to tell,” he says, blasé. “But I aced the soccer team tryouts and—”
I hear Hilary in the background calling him. “Okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, Dad’s home. I’ve got to go.” He sighs, definitely stroking my ego by sounding regretful. “I’ll FaceTime you next week, okay?”
“Okay,” I squeak, cringing. FaceTime. He’ll see I’m not on the beach, or around the villa, or by the pool. “Love you, boy.”
“Yeah, you too. Tell Mister I’ve asked if I can have some jet ski lessons down the beach at the weekends.”