Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“I don’t hate the sound of that.”
He gives my clit one final, hard squeeze. I moan. “You should.”
I come apart with his fingers inside me and his palm pressed against my clit. I’m throbbing so hard I start to shake. I’m already beyond words when he removes his hand from between my legs. I watch, eyes going wide, as he sticks those fingers into his mouth.
It’s lewd.
It’s hot.
Especially when he spits out a “Fuck,” followed by “you taste good, Greer. Salty, but so sweet.”
My heart, beating frantically, goes into freefall.
Chapter Twenty
GREER
Despite having “the talk” on the ride home, it’s still awkward when we pull up to my house later that afternoon. We agreed to a general idea of what comes next. But what actually comes next? As in, what do we do with the rest of the day?
I have no freaking clue.
Do I invite Brooks in? Or do I give us both an out and say I need to catch up on all the work I’ve missed? It’s not a lie.
Work. Ugh. It was nice not thinking about it all weekend, but it’s time to face the music. I need to check in with Hannah and Dustin. Update our Instagram story. Review the warranty we have on one of our commercial ovens that’s been giving us grief lately.
But can’t I do all that and still hang out with Brooks too? I think I’m getting addicted to him.
Keira’s BMW is parked on the street outside the house. She’s home. Are Brooks and I ready to flaunt our relationship in front of her? She’d never say a word to anyone about us, but Brooks doesn’t know that. I imagine it’d be pretty uncomfortable for him to basically confide in someone he doesn’t know—someone who works on the trading floor with him and George.
I rub my forehead. Brooks is right. This is complicated. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try, right?
“So—”
“Let me stop you right there,” he says, putting the truck in park. “Your body needs a break, for one thing. If I go inside with you . . . yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
I grin, despite the disappointment that floods my chest. “That’s fair.”
He slides his sunglasses onto his head. His eyes meet mine. “For another, I want to do this right. Which means I need to think. Luckily I have a small mountain of laundry to do, and folding clothes is when I do my best thinking.”
What’s left of my heart melts and dissolves into my skin as I imagine Brooks standing at his counter, brow furrowed while he carefully and methodically folds his carefully and methodically selected wardrobe. “Same. Something about the repetitive motion.”
“And how warm the clothes are from the dryer.”
“Yes! One of life’s best little pleasures.”
His eyes move between mine. “You sure you’re going to be okay alone tonight?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
I want to mean it. I’ve been on my own, romantically speaking, for the entirety of my adult life. What’s one more night?
But suddenly—in the space of a weekend—everything has changed.
Everything feels different.
Brooks carries my bags to the door. He draws me in for a tight hug I feel in my bones. Going up on my tiptoes, I bury my head in his neck and inhale his smell. The cedar. The clean, crisp scent of his wool Henley.
My eyes burn when he lets me go after a soft kiss on the lips.
“See you in the morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, hanging on to my hand.
“See ya,” I say like an idiot.
Because that’s exactly what I feel like standing here with a moon in my throat and my keys in my hand: a big, lovesick idiot. Who cries over a guy after one measly weekend spent together? Brooks is only trying to do the right thing. He’d never make a promise he couldn’t keep. He’d never intentionally lead me on. He’s just being upfront about what he needs—time, space—and honestly, that’s all he owes me right now.
Still. It hurts, going inside without him.
The Range Rover only pulls away when I close the door behind me.
That’s when I finally allow the floodgates to open. I drop my bags on the floor and my keys on the console, tears spilling out of my eyes.
Keira emerges from the kitchen. She’s got what looks like a piece of focaccia shoved in her mouth, a glass of frosty white wine in her hand.
Her smile falls when she sees me. “Oh, friend, what happened?”
“I’m . . . not fine,” I manage, drawing my fingertips over the damp ridge of my left cheek.
“No shit! Come here. I want to hear everything.” She loops an arm around my shoulders and drops her voice. “Was he a dick?”
“Ha! No. I almost wish he was. I think it would be easier.”
Keira leads me to the kitchen. It smells like garlic and rosemary. “What would?”