Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
“Cadence, look at me, cariño.” I get her attention. Judging by the way her breathing picks up, she’s gathering the understanding of what I’m after. “I’m not starting over because there’s no way a handshake can take place of this.” My lips touch hers, lightly, feeling the pillowy softness, allowing her a moment to get used to my presence. The soft hum in the back of her throat, the way her hands go to my waist, not pushing me away but pulling me closer, and when I feel them move, coasting up my chest, skin against skin, sinking her nails in along the way, my tongue sweeps across her lower lip. The slightest intake of breath has me moving my hand from her cheek to her hair, pulling it back, deepening the kiss while pressing closer between her spread thighs, knowing that if my other hand moved from where it’s at, on the back of the barstool, it would be between her legs, feeling the wetness that’s currently permeating the air with her intoxicating scent, or even better, loosening the ties at her upper back, allowing her tits to fall free and my hands to cup them, thumbs rasping over what I’m hoping for are sensitive nipples, mouth moving away from natural ruby-red lips.
“You see why I want us exactly the way we are, Cadence?” I pull back ever so slightly. She attempts to follow me, wanting more, eyes half-lidded with lust, body melting with just a kiss.
“Yeah.” When she gives me her eyes, it’s hard not to go back, taking this another step further. Me, the man who didn’t want or need another, never allowing myself to be tied down to a woman, wants everything when it comes to Cadence—her wild abandon, her scent on my pillow, her mark on my body, I want it fucking all. I’m not going to stop until I have everything she has to give.
EIGHTEEN
Cadence
“Someone pinch me. I’m dreaming,” I tell the empty bathroom. Santiago left me with a kiss enough to drop me to my knees, paying homage to the thickness between his thick, muscular thighs, and all with one singular kiss. Business, that’s what he had left to take care of. We never finished the conversation about the dream I was working towards, which is okay. I would have bumbled my way through it, unaware of how to string two words together, let alone a sentence. I asked to take a shower since he made his intentions clear, going as far as growling out the words, “Stay, make yourself at home. This shouldn’t take too long.” I should have demanded a phone, called a car, and stumbled my way into my house afterwards. The thought of being alone for the holidays seemed daunting after my world has been spun in a whole other atmosphere. Instead, I asked to take a shower, feeling gross because I was still wearing the dress, thong, strapless bra that were sent to me by Rachel. A shiver of disgust ripples through me thinking about the whole debacle.
That’s why I’m currently in Santiago’s bathroom, not the one I used this morning when I woke up. Nope, his personal one, where he carried me, all the way into the shower, setting me on the bench carefully, looking like he was dying to help me take off my clothes. And given the way I react to him, the bad or maybe not so bad part is that I would have welcomed it. Santiago left me with a kiss and a change of his clothes—black cotton tee, boxer briefs, and socks were left on the counter with the strict instruction that he’d be in the bedroom, listening for me if I needed help. It takes me a bit to finagle out of my dress while operating the controls for the shower, feeling a bit like I’ve lived in the Fred Flintstone ages while Santiago lived in The Jetson era. Once the water is on, I get to work, washing my hair with his shampoo. I don’t see any conditioner, which will mean a mess of knots later on, but use his body wash, which smells like cedar mixed with oranges, earthy and unique, much like Santiago himself. Then I sit back down on the bench, allowing the water to pour down my body and pinching my arm in case this was a dream and I wasn’t awake.
“Ouch.” Yep, I’m awake and not in a fairytale, except maybe I am.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt, Cadence?” The door bangs open. Shockingly, the hinges don’t come off. I squeal out an unintelligent sound and stand up, hair falling around my shoulders, so long that it goes past my breasts, obscuring the view of them except leaving me completely naked and vulnerable with the rest of my body. The smart thing to do would be to demand he leave or cover myself up, but that’s not what I do, not when Santiago stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that I’m at least okay. Cataloguing every piece of my body from the tips of my ears down to my toes.