Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I’ve never enjoyed watching a woman come apart this much before.
Her legs convulse for an eternity as I pull her to my face, making her ride my mouth, my dusting of a beard, holding her prisoner until she’s gasping and limp.
When I’m finally sure she’s completely spent, I come up and kiss her, hovering over her.
She takes the slow, deep kiss I offer.
“Taste yourself, woman. Only way you’ll ever understand what you do to me,” I whisper.
She’s too flushed, breathing too hard to answer.
I smile like the madman I’ve become.
We kiss in heady silence until the oven dings.
“Breakfast.” I stand up with a knowing look over my shoulder, loving how she laughs. I point to a door on the other side of the room. “My closet is over there. Wear whatever you want until the clothes are dry. I’ll feed the dogs and throw your stuff in the dryer once the scones are out.”
When she walks into the kitchen a few minutes later, this time she’s wearing my old USMC t-shirt. I’m not sure who looks more surprised, me or the Dobermans, who look up from the small antlers they’ve been gnawing.
“How do you take your coffee?” I ask.
“White.”
“White? That’s a new one. Are you fucking with me?”
“Um, we already did that, but... It’s easy. Just pour heavy cream until it turns white and add sugar.”
“Okay, one glass of sugar-milk with a dab of coffee coming right up.” I wink at her.
“Dick. But I love the way you don’t hide your art here.” She turns her breakfast stool, studying the paintings on the walls like we’re at a museum.
I follow her gaze to where it stops on the Celtic owl painting beside the breakfast bar. One of the few creations I’m genuinely proud of, once a gift for my mother’s sixtieth birthday.
“Oh, wait. Isn’t this like the one on your shoulder?”
Nothing slips past her, the little minx.
I grin. “Good eye. They’re similar designs. I did the painting first and liked it so much I took a picture and asked for a recreation at the tattoo shop. Celtic designs get pretty intricate because of all of the knots, but the artist pulled it off.”
She blushes and smiles. “I agree. I thoroughly examined you. I noticed the eagle tattoo on your other shoulder. Is that from your paintings, too?”
For a second, I hesitate, working on the coffee.
“No. It’s from my days in the Marine Corps. Played a big role in making me the man I am today,” I tell her, unsure why I’m even thinking about revealing the other part. “My late mother, she loved owls. I keep them around for the same reason you have your grandmother’s gardens and bee boxes.”
Her eyes gleam with sympathy as she nods. “Oh. Oh, right. I’m sorry, Miles.”
“It was a long time ago.”
And still just like yesterday, I think bitterly.
I pry the dark thoughts off my mind and set the scones down to cool, then quickly whip up my take on honey butter.
“These won’t be Lottie good, but they’re nothing to sneeze at.”
She smiles, drawing a happy breath. “Smells amazing. If we all had to live up to Gram’s cooking, we’d be so screwed.”
The way she bites into the scone a minute later and chews so intently says I did the job.
“I have to say, you don’t seem like a Marine,” she tells me.
“What does a Marine seem like?”
She doesn’t say anything, just picks up her scone and slathers it with more honey butter.
“I don’t know. Tough. Street smart.”
I snort. “You think I’m not?”
Again, she laughs.
“You’re scary. You paint landscapes and make property deals. You manage a multibillion-dollar media company and you look like you could knock down a linebacker. Also, you’re so rich—and a good cook—it’s just hard to imagine you sleeping in tents, scraping dehydrated food out of bags.”
“Tents are for officers. Everyone else sleeps on the ground like real jarheads. You’d be surprised how many CEOs in this town have done their four to eight years with Uncle Sam.”
She chews thoughtfully and swallows, sipping her sugar-milk.
“I suppose you’re right. Pippa said Brock did some time in the Air Force, and I know Lincoln Burns and Cole Lancaster also served.”
“Yeah. Veterans everywhere in the ranks. Discipline gets you a whole lot further than money ever will. War is business. It teaches you how to survive on no sleep and gut-rot coffee. You go forty-eight hours if you need to and you make your bed before you leave the house. It’s better training than any MBA degree for frat boys.” I shrug. “Grit’s worth its weight in gold.”
“Lucky you,” she whispers. “Yeah, if I hadn’t slept in two days, I’d just lie down on the ground and pass out.”
“You’d be court-martialed in no time.”
“But I didn’t leave. I just needed sleep...”
“I suppose beauty sleep is extra important for you, kitten.”