Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Ian turned away from the stove, a piece of toast in hand. “Look on the balcony.”
Ah. I had a vague recollection of straddling him on the chaise lounge, and it coming off. I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “Good thinking.”
He smirked, ripping off a bite of toast. “I never forget my best work.”
“And that was your best work?” I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe you need some tutoring.”
He laughed, not at all concerned with my critique. “Your orgasms didn’t seem to mind it.”
“Yeah, they aren’t very picky. But, I’ll probably keep you around a little longer. As a charity project, of course.” I grinned at him and walked around the counter, stealing a crumb of his toast and popping it into my mouth. “Please say that you have more than burnt bread to woo me with.”
“There’s yogurt in the fridge.”
“Oooh. Sexy. You’re like a hot Emeril Lagasse.”
He spun slightly on the stool. “At the risk of getting you all hot and bothered, I’ve also got cereal in the cabinet.”
I made a face. “I think I’ll just grab something on the way to work.”
“Your loss. I’ve got to get back to the university anyway.”
He grabbed a shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head. Pushing open the balcony slider, I saw my sundress puddled on the deck.
“Need help?” He stuck his head out the door, a baseball cap now pulled on, and damn, he was pretty. Five o’clock shadow, T-shirt snug over his lean muscular build, and enough height to make me look up into his eyes.
Tugging it up my body, I started on the side zipper. “Nah, I’m good.”
He hesitated in the doorway as if he had something to say.
I finished getting the dress into place. “What?”
“Speaking of keeping me around a little longer, I was wondering if you might want to go out to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Dinner?” I hesitated. “You mean, like a date?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, Bell. Like a date.”
Alarm bells sounded at full strength. Dating wasn’t what I was looking for. While sizzling hot sex with a consistent guy was right up my alley, thoughts of emotional attachment gave me hives. Not that he was proposing emotional attachment. But that’s what dates led to, right? Relationships. Real relationships, not the fuck-buddy stints of my past.
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Because you’re working, or because you don’t want to?”
“Both.” I met his eyes. “I thought we were on the same page with what this was.”
This wasn’t his fault. My steadfast commitment to emotion-free sex wasn’t normal. Losing my virginity to two assholes who left me bleeding on a barn floor had certainly affected my viewpoint and left me with deep emotional scars. For the first two years after that night, I had nightmares. I’d been terrified of men and avoided any interaction with them. Long talks with my mother had helped. She taught me that I couldn’t be a victim. She’s the one who took me to the gun range on weekends and gave me the confidence to believe I was no longer vulnerable. Counseling, a year later, had cleared several more hurdles. But Elliot Wilton was the one who did the heavy lifting in my emotional healing. Sweet, terrified of me, Elliot Wilton had done the impossible and calmed my fear of men. We’d had a semester-long history project together, a project that led to a dozen late nights alone together in the dark recesses of the library. He’d all but quaked when my hand had brushed against his leg. Three weeks later, I’d kissed him with the hesitancy of an alley cat and he’d blushed bright red. I’d felt power in that kiss, had felt the way his skin had heated with the touch, had seen the way his eyes had shone with worship when I’d pulled away and wiped my wet mouth. With Elliot, I wasn’t the victim, I was the aggressor. Slowly, I learned that I could do anything I wanted—or didn’t want—and he’d let me.
Elliot gave me a taste of the power of my own sexuality. And with that taste, I was addicted.
The project ended, Elliot graduated, and I moved on to a foreign exchange student who barely spoke English but introduced me to the beauty of his mouth in between my legs. After my own high school graduation, I grew bolder, testing the waters with an electrician five years older than me, one who could spit game like a pro but was putty in the bedroom.
With each male, I grew stronger, less affected by the events of my past and more detached from the act of sex. I didn’t want a relationship. I wanted pleasure. I wanted control. I wanted the ability to walk away without a thought, pain or heartache.
Which is why this Irish sex god and I couldn’t go on a date. This needed to stay like every other physical relationship I’d ever had—a mutually beneficial arrangement set up with clear ground rules. They needed to treat me with respect. Sex wasn’t ever a guarantee. Condoms would be used. And no emotions needed to be involved, other than friendship.