Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
He grins down at me, blue eyes gleaming. “Well, this is Florida, so I was thinking we could go to the beach. Unless you have other suggestions? I’m open to whatever.”
“You don’t have other work calls or anything?” Before he showed up, I planned to spend most of my vacation hanging out on my grandparents’ lanai with my laptop, getting ahead on edits—and maybe even working on the first chapter of my own super-secret story. Now, however, all of that is out the window… unless Marcus also plans to work part of the day.
He lifts his eyebrows. “You sound disappointed. Do you want me to work?”
“No, of course not—unless you have to. I’ll totally understand if you have to.” And yes, maybe a part of me wants him occupied with something other than me, so I can catch my breath and try to maintain some equanimity. I’d been the sole recipient of his attention for most of last weekend, and it had been beyond heady, so much so it had nearly crushed me when he left and subsequently disappeared for three days. If he’s going to be here until Sunday—and I suspect he will be, as despite my ultimatum last night, he hasn’t said a peep to my grandparents about flying back to NYC tonight—I need to find a way to protect myself, to keep at least a portion of my heart shielded in case he flips the switch from hot to cold again.
His lips curve wryly as understanding glimmers in his gaze. “How about we bring some folding chairs and our laptops to the beach? We can swim if the water is warm enough, and if not, we can just enjoy the ocean breeze while catching up on some work. I’m guessing you have something you need to get done, editing-wise?”
“Well, kind of,” I admit sheepishly. “It’s nothing urgent, but—”
“Say no more. If there’s anything I understand, it’s wanting to have a productive vacation.”
I smile up at him. “Okay, great. Let me just grab my things and—”
“Wait.” He catches my arm. “Before you do that, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do all morning.”
“Oh?” I say breathlessly, my head tipping back as he grips my hips and draws me against his tall, hard body. “What’s that?”
His voice turns husky. “This.” And dipping his head to kiss me, he maneuvers us toward the bed.
9
Marcus
It’s official.
I’m an animal when it comes to Emma.
We had sex less than a half hour ago, yet as my hand glides over the smooth skin of her back, covering it with sunblock before we exit the car, all I can think about is how much I want to run my tongue up the indentation of her spine—and how much I love seeing the red, hickey-like marks on the junction between her neck and shoulder, where I sucked and nibbled on her tender flesh a little too hard last night.
It’s wrong, and completely Neanderthal of me, but I want everyone who looks at her at the beach today to know that she’s mine.
“Please don’t forget to spread it under the bikini straps and the waistband of the shorts,” she murmurs, glancing at me over her shoulder. Her gray eyes are bright in the sunlight pouring in through the car windows, her freckled cheeks softly flushed under the wide brim of her hat. “I always get the most awful sunburn right around the edges of my swimsuit.”
“Don’t worry.” My voice comes out thicker than I intended. “I’ve got you.”
I finish covering her back and shoulders with a thick layer of sunblock, making sure to go under the straps of her yellow bikini top and into the jean shorts covering her bikini bottoms. Then I hand her the tube. “All done.”
“What about you?” she asks as I reach for the door handle. “Do you want me to apply it to your back?”
“Maybe later.” Between seeing her without a shirt and smearing the lotion on her deliciously soft skin, I’m already battling a beach-inappropriate erection. If she starts touching me, we might not leave the car—and I may need to explain a public indecency charge to her grandparents when they come to bail us out of jail.
Stock market advice or not, Ted Walsh might not like me very much after that.
Exiting the car, I inhale deeply, drawing the warm, humid air into my lungs. It smells like salt, sun, and sand. According to my car’s dashboard, it’s eighty-four degrees outside—an unusually hot day for late November in northern Florida. Which probably explains why the boardwalk and the beach in front of us are teeming with people, both tourists and locals alike.
Thankfully, nobody is looking at the bulge in my shorts as I walk over to the trunk to take out the beach chairs we borrowed from her grandparents. Holding the chairs under one arm, I reach into the back seat and grab my laptop bag, which holds both of our computers.