Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
“Jesse,” she yelps, and proceeds to buck and jack in the seat, laughing uncontrollably. I swerve. It’s Ava’s saving grace. “Oh God,” she puffs, smacking my bicep. “Don’t do that when I’m nowhere near a toilet.”
I’m laughing again. “Noted. The last thing we need is you having to unravel wet knickers.”
“If my knickers need unravelling, you should have to do it since you’re the one who gets them all twisted in the first place.”
“And wet,” I say, and she laughs, eyes closed, mouth wide open. I put my foot down and reach for her leg, squeezing. “I love you, lady.”
“I know,” she sighs, resting her head back on the leather, settling.
* * *
“Thank the fucking Lord,” I breathe when the owner of the second liquor store we try—our last chance saloon—pulls down a bottle of Glenmorangie Port Wood Finish from the top shelf and blows off some dust.
“Thank you,” Ava says, looking at me. “Lord.”
She’s so cute. “How much,” I ask, pulling out my wallet.
“Oh, no.” Ava steps in front of me, like she can block me from the man behind the counter. I’m a head taller than she is. I can still see him, and he’s looking between us. “How much?” Ava asks him, rummaging through her bag and pulling out her wallet.
I remain silent and start slowly shaking my head at the man in warning.
“Umm,” he says, coughing, torn.
Ava swings around and delivers a dick-slicing glare. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What?” I say over a laugh.
“Being all passive-aggressive so he won’t listen to me.”
I snort, insulted. “Me? Passive-aggressive?”
“Yes, you. I’m paying, Ward, and if you be unreasonable about it, there will be consequences.”
Consequences? “Like what?”
“You know, I am feeling quite tired.”
I balk. “That’s a low blow.”
“But one of the only things you’ll listen to.” She turns back to the man. “How much?”
“Eighty-nine pounds, dear.” He pops it in a paper bag and passes it across the counter, eyeing me as I wander away, relenting, if only because time is ticking and enough has been wasted on other people today. “Passive-aggressive?” I mutter. “She’s lost her damn mind.”
“Ready?”
“I was ready an hour ago.” I open the door for her, unamused. “The question is, lady,” I say, catching up with her, getting my mouth to her ear and slipping my hand between her thighs as she walks. She squeaks. “Are you ready?”
She doesn’t answer, just stiffens from the top of her beautiful head to her cute little toes.
* * *
We leave Clive marveling over his rare bottle, thrilled, and as soon as I get the door to the penthouse unlocked, I hold it open with my foot, letting Ava through. She claims the bags from my hands and carries on her way, leaving me at the door with no bags to hold, and no woman to hold either.
“What are you doing?” I let the door close behind me and toss my keys on the table.
“I’m taking these upstairs to the spare room.” She looks back at my pouting face. “You can’t see my dress.”
“Put them in our room.”
“No can do,” she sing-songs, turning the other way at the top of the stairs. I frown at the now-empty space, hearing a door to one of the spare bedrooms close. The farthest one. The one she retreats to whenever we have words. I hate that room.
I trudge up after her, keen to get our alone time underway before it’s too late. I’ve been waiting all day for this. I approach the door and listen for a moment, hearing the rustling of bags. She’s in there, near a bed. Not that I need one. I reach up and purposely, very gently knock the door. It’s an effort. I just want to bash the damn thing down, toss her over my shoulder, and take her back to my cave.
“Don’t come in,” she yells, sounding panicked. I recoil, just as it opens a tiny bit and Ava peeks through the gap. My lips stretch into a killer smile, my hands going into my pockets to restrain them. This is what it will be like on our big day, I know it. Ava in one room, me in another. Her following tradition, me following my instinct. See her. Just see her and ravish her, fuck what tradition dictates.
“Are we getting married?” The words fall out by total accident. Or perhaps not. Perhaps my sub-conscience is curious about what reaction that question might raise. Apparently, no reaction at all. It seems to go right over her head. She thinks I’m joking?
Her hand appears and she flaps it. “I want it to be a surprise. I need to paint my nails. Go.”
My bottom lip protrudes. And there I was thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything else that could interrupt me. Now I’m losing her to nail polish? “Fine,” I relent, being reluctantly reasonable. She’s willing to come tonight, we’re moving in the right direction, and I need to keep us moving so we’re far enough down the road to not turn back when we meet a few . . . bumps. Bumps? Fucking mountains. “I’ll wait for you in the bath.” I back up. “Don’t be long, I’ve already lost an hour searching for fucking whiskey.”