Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“You are.” Because him plus touching me equals all the O columns.
Asher steps back. “Was that nice enough?”
“You whispered dirty things in my ear just to get me to show you my spreadsheet?”
He lifts the mug to his lips, and says yes with his eyes, then takes a drink.
“Good move, St. James. You’re learning a thing or two about negotiation,” I quip, as I head to my room and snag my laptop.
Less than a minute later, we’re seated at the kitchen table, and for the first time ever in my life, I let someone into my fantasies. I never did anything like this with Bridget. True, I didn’t have a detailed list back then. Though I doubt that’s the reason I didn’t reveal them to her.
But now I’m compelled to share this with him. It’s not just necessary, but important. After I tap in my password, the first seven digits of pi, I click it open while Asher scrubs a hand across his jaw.
He’s silent as he stares at the screen.
For several long seconds, he's frozen with that hand on his face. Maybe a minute.
He can’t think I’m too dirty?
Or too . . . type A?
Lowering his hand, he turns to me in slow motion, his eyes registering Vegas-slot-machine-payoff glee. He curls that hand around the back of my neck. “You filthy fucker.”
His lips come down on my mouth and he spears his tongue with mine in a hot, dirty kiss that tastes like coffee and the promise of morning sex.
When he breaks the kiss, he rubs his palms together, glancing at the time on the computer.
In a flurry, he points to the cells.
This one, please. And that one, I absolutely call dibs on that. When I do this one, I will make you forget how to trade bonds, or stocks, or piggy banks, and when we’re doing this, all you’ll be saying is don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.
My throat is dry. I can’t speak. I don’t want him to stop talking.
“Let me tell you something, Banks. I don’t know how your probability curves or equations or what-have-you work, but the probability of us getting to as much as we superhumanly can in four nights,” he says, then points to the screen again, and drags his index finger past all my dirty gifs and porn clips, “is only going to work if we get started really fucking soon.”
“Yeah. Good. That.”
He cracks up. “You and your one-syllable words when you’re horny.”
“Your fault.”
“And I take the blame,” he says, emphasizing the short sounds. But then his excitement drains away. He’s dead serious as his eyes laser in on mine. “But we need to finish that list of rules, Banks.”
I square my shoulders, and use his original words. “Rules for . . . harmless vacation fun.”
That's the biggest rule of all. This will be harmless. I don’t have room in my life for anything more. And even though I don’t know Asher well, I’m confident he lives every day of his life by that motto, harmless fun.
“I'm game for anything on here. So let's pick your top fantasies,” Asher says. “And they'll keep us busy for the next four nights.”
But that’s not quite right. My convertible days are numbered. “I’m jetting Saturday night right after the wedding. I’m taking Rosie to Disney World on Sunday when it opens so we need to hit the road.”
“In a minivan?”
I roll my eyes. “Dude. No. There are just two of us.” I don’t tell him I rented a Subaru.
“Okay, three nights then. Tonight, Thursday, and Friday.”
I clear my throat. “Did you forget about the existence of mornings too?”
He chuckles. “I like the way you think. Morning and evening. Hell, add in an afternoon handy J for me as well. Wait, make it a double. You can have one too,” he says, light and breezy.
That’s his style, spontaneous and spur of the moment, but I’m a planner. “Consider it done. But after Friday night, it’s over.”
He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, his eyes saying not quite. “Mark, did you now forget about the existence of mornings? Don’t give Saturday morning the cold shoulder when you can give me your hard cock instead.”
I laugh, and I definitely don’t mind his carpe diem attitude when it comes to sex. Still, I’ve gotta do me. “Then we’re done on the wedding day,” I repeat, for emphasis. “New York is not an option.”
It can’t be. There’s a reason for my unfortunate celibacy, with Bridget handing me the majority of the parenting, I don’t have time for more. Rosie’s at home with me most nights, and that’s the way I like it. I can’t imagine bringing hookups home. Hey, cupcake. After you fall asleep, Daddy’s gotta take care of 11A and 11B with his Tinder date.
Pass.
New York sex spreadsheet tabs are out of the question.