Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Amber.” He put force in his voice and grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it over his lower half and holding it up in invitation.
Her eyes darted to his face then lowered to his sleepy dick. She continued to stare, cracking her knuckles, as he recited the U.S. Presidents. “Washington, Adams, Jefferson” —Madison— “Mac...No, uh, Roe—”
“What are you doing?” She lowered her hands and approached the bed, head cocked.
Good girl. Keep walking.
His arm was growing tired of holding up the blanket. “Who was the fourth president?”
“Madison.” She blinked. “Why?”
He was bored a couple years ago, in between slaves, and passed the time by memorizing all the presidents, first ladies, and trivial facts about each. Now he used it to distract her from a meltdown, as well as to keep his dick from hardening and scaring her away.
“Takes my mind off things.” He glanced down at his flaccid cock and could feel the weight of her eyes there, too.
In the next breath, the lamp clicked off, and her knee landed beside him. Before he could catch his breath, she curled around him, arm hooked at his back and leg nudging between his.
Christ Almighty, what a goddamned fulfilling feeling, her hard feminine muscles and soft curves all up against him. He rolled to his back and savored the warm weight of her tight body pressed against his side. She felt fucking amazing, all relaxed and accepting, holding him as if she appreciated the intimacy as much as he did.
This was his new favorite position, and his dick wasn't even inside her. Hell, he wasn't even hard.
How was it that just twelve hours ago he'd held her at gunpoint, drugged her, and forced himself inside her. How could she have admitted she liked him or have any desire to snuggle against his body? But she had, and she was.
She wasn't normal.
He released a long, conflicted breath. They would never be normal. It just wasn't in their blood. He gripped her thigh, hooking it over his, and coiled his fingers around her hair. Fuck normal.
Her exhale warmed his neck, and the pad of her thumb traced his collarbone. “When was the last time you slept beside someone?”
“More than a year ago.” Which didn't exactly conjure sweet memories. On those rare occasions when Liv actually stayed in his bed, he'd never felt so alone. “She was the only one. What about you?”
“Brent was the first and last.” Her tits pushed against his ribs as she breathed in. “What was her name?”
“Liv.”
Her fingers jerked against his chest, but her lips pressed a soft peck on his shoulder, just beside the bullet wound. He'd tell her about that, about all of it, eventually. The idea of keeping anything from her was ludicrous. And so unlike his relationship with Liv, which had died at the hand of secrets.
Tonight had been the first night he didn't drive to Liv's neighborhood in over six months, and he hadn't even thought about it till now. Thinking of her tended to stir up a turmoil of conflicting emotions. But at the moment, all he felt was a dim ache somewhere behind his heart.
“Do you love her? Is that why you were on my porch?”
There were no quick responses to that. “I'm going to delay the answer to your last question because we're both tired. As for the first, I like to think of it as a seven-year fever.” Which had burned into a hotheaded, delusion-inducing illness.
His admission hovered in the darkness, smothering like a miasma he'd accidentally let in.
Her quiet voice scattered the thick air. “My fever lasted fourteen years.”
Fourteen years. That sleazy asshat didn't deserve fourteen seconds with her. “You know how to treat a fever?”
“Mm. I'm too tired to think of something witty. Go ahead.”
“Rest and lots of fluids.” He lowered his voice. “Obviously, not at the same time.”
“Oh my God.” Her groan dissolved into a soft lullaby of laughter. As it whispered through him, he realized the reason his days felt so empty was because they hadn't been filled with that sound.
He touched his lips to the top of her head, grinning. What a sentimental asshole.
For the second time that night, he waited for her breaths to tumble into sleep. This time, they did, pulling him along with a smile on his face.
The next morning, he woke wearing that same damned smile. But it didn't last. He was alone in the bed and the loft.
He shot up, his feet tripping over the floor. Only he wasn't tripping on a goddamned thing. Not a shirt or a magazine or a discarded pack of cigarettes in sight.
Fuuuuck. She'd been up for awhile.
The bedside clock read 10:43. He released a relieved breath. It was still early. He raked his hands through his hair. That was early, right? Jesus, what time did she normally wake?