Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I’ve told myself to stop staying awake at night wanting him but he makes it nearly impossible. His eyes fall to my lips and I swallow, goose bumps breaking out from my hairline to my toes.
“Try what?” I ask in an equally quiet voice. Reaching out, I dare to run my fingertips over the short beard from the side of his face to his chin. His thick lashes beaded with water flutter shut.
“Be a better man for you.”
“You’re the best man I know already…nothing to try for.”
“You keep at it like that and I’m going to kiss you,” those perfectly shaped lips murmur. It sounds like a threat and a promise and part of me hopes it’s both.
His lips swoop down and capture mine. The kiss is closed-mouthed, sweet, tentative. He’s giving me the chance to stop it but I don’t.
He softly brushes his lips back and forth, nibbling, investigating what I like. Kiss, kiss, kissing me until mine part and his tongue slips inside. He tastes like apples and sweet beginnings. He feels like absolution and safety…like an unexpected second chance.
His big hands wrap around my face and he pulls me closer. There are not many men that can make me feel small and dainty and this one does. God bless him.
The water might as well be boiling because all I feel is heat. His, mine, the water, the humidity.
That’s when I pull out all the stops and lean in, giving it all I’ve got. And Grant doesn’t need to be asked. He’s on it, wooing my mouth, my body. His hands move down and grip my ass cheeks, pulling me against the erection trapped between our bodies.
You know that ah-ha moment you get when two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle snap together? When you know you’ve finally aced something. That’s what kissing Grant feels like.
I’ve made mistakes, more than my share. But Grant? He’s the right to all my wrongs.
All the fun comes to a sudden halt when a sloppy tongue licks my face. It then migrates to the man I’m kissing. Laughing, we break apart, Roxy barking wildly and jumping up on us. We pull apart and stare at each other, smiling.
“What are we doing?”
“I’m not sure,” he tells me in a soft, low voice and brushes a piece of hair away from my mouth. “But let’s go with it.”
The next morning I drive to the studio with a heavy heart and a gut filled with worry. Neither Dev nor I anticipated people not showing up. The space was small enough that we were nearly guaranteed a full house for every time slot. Our clients are devoted to a fault. We had half our Manhattan class schedule filled on a day a nor’easter hit the tri-state area. Low attendance was never even a consideration.
After the kissing, which was out-of-this-world good, reality set back in when Sam called to tell me that Ronan bought him a drum set. I was thrilled to hear it. Not. He better assume he’s keeping it at his house.
More importantly it brought my feet back down to earth. This a complicated affair, with many moving parts. We can’t just plunge into a hot and heavy thing and deal with consequences later. That’s what I would’ve done years ago. Now I have Sam to consider.
I drive down Main Street and take in the Mercedes, Bentleys even Rolls-Royces that line the town streets. Just another day in the neighborhood around these parts.
By the time I get to my block I’m gapping. The street is so congested with car and foot traffic that I can’t even park in my reserved space. People dressed in yoga gear crowd the doorway. Photographers camped outside. I park and a police cruiser drives by to inform me that he was sent over to help.
Holy Hendricks.
Dev and I are at the check-in desk when familiar faces start to pour in, flashing their The Bend badges at me before going to grab a spot. With each person that enters and greets me the heavy burden of failure I’m carrying around lessens. I can take deeper breaths.
By 7 a.m. the room is full. I’m about to close the door and get started when a familiar face approaches from down the sidewalk, photographers tailing him closely.
“Are you retiring?”
“Ivy Stone says the baby could be yours.”
“Do you have anything to say to the rumors that you’re gay?”
Questions are hurled at him right and left. They even step in front of him to grab a shot, nearly getting trampled in the process. Ignoring all of them, he keeps walking.
Dressed in compression shorts and a technical shirt, a yoga mat neatly tucked under his arm, he looks like the sexy cherry on an ice cream sundae, one I’d like to twist into a knot with my tongue. My heart does a sun salutation inside my chest.