Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Why?” She laughs and sits down across from me. “Can’t I just look at it? It’s all so pretty.”
I shake my head. “Pretty? Really? That’s why you want a room like this?”
“I’m not old enough to know if I like wine yet.”
“Yes, you are,” I assure her, opening the corked bottle in front of me—a sampler I tried two nights ago with my father. “This is a pinot.” I fill both of our glasses with a double slosh. “You’re supposed to breathe it in and then taste it. You can smell the different components of the wine.
“I won’t ask how you know all of this. I know. Your family is so very cultured, and mine is not.”
She drops comments like that here and there, and I usually tell her she’s a princess who will one day be the queen of her own desires. She just laughs and tells me I’m old beyond my age. She has no idea how true that is. I don’t let on how uncultured my father is behind closed doors, how brutal is more like it. Being old beyond my years isn’t a choice, but a necessity to survive.
She holds her glass to her nose and sniffs. “What should I smell?”
I lift my glass to my own nose now, draw in the scent, and then attempt to impress her. “It’s a complex array of flavors, from ripe cherry and raspberry to intriguing undertones of forest floor, tea leaves, and sometimes even clove.”
She giggles, and it’s this sweet, sexy sound that’s turned me on since about thirteen, when my hormones first kicked in. “You’re repeating what your father told you when he smelled it,” she accuses
I smirk. “That obvious?”
“Pretty obvious.” She sniffs her glass again and says, “I can smell the cherry. You?”
I’m not paying attention to the wine. I never really was. She’s all that I care about—right now, and most of the time. “I can smell your perfume. It’s jasmine.”
Heat rushes to her cheeks, a pretty pink like her lips. “You’re not supposed to smell me, silly. Focus on the wine.” She points to my glass, and I concur with her command, and we both sip at the same time.
For the next fifteen minutes, we drink wine and talk about her future wine room, which I want to be my future wine room, as silly as all my buddies would call that idea. But fuck them all. Fuck my father, who deems her “beneath me” and a “distraction.” Alana matters to me, and the more wine warms my veins, the more I want her to know how much I want her.
The doorbell rings, and thanks to the advanced electronic system down here, we hear it loud and clear. “I’ll grab the pizza and bring it down here,” I say.
“Hurry,” she encourages. “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” I say playfully. “But that’s your fault,” I add, and this time she doesn’t pretend I’m not flirting.
“Damion,” she murmurs softly, a delicate little reprimand in her tone that does nothing to hide how breathless she sounds.
I stand up, and she stands up, and I pull her to me. “Fuck the pizza.” My hand settles on her lower back, and I fold her into me, and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt her body next to mine. I wonder if she can feel how hard I am, and I want her to know. “And fuck all this friendship stuff, Alana.”
“This is a mistake,” she says, but her tone isn’t adamant or forceful at all, and she doesn’t push me away.
The doorbell rings again, and she jolts as if it’s an alarm and our parents are about to catch us all up close and personal. “Saved by the bell,” she says, pushing on my chest. “And not by the wine. We need to eat before we do something stupid.” There’s a lift to her voice, panic in the depths that I really fucking despise.
“I don’t want the pizza,” I bite out.
“I don’t want to be one of your girls, Damion. No.” Her voice is steel. “Get the pizza.” And this time, when she shoves at me, it’s decisive.
I let her go.
And I hate that I let her go.
I scrub a palm over my jaw and press my hands to my hips, a hundred objections on my lips before I mutter, “I’ll get the stupid pizza one of us wants.”
“I can come up for the movie.”
“Not yet,” I say, turning to face her. “Not yet, Alana.” And this time, I’m the one who’s forceful.
She swallows hard and nods her agreement.
I leave her there then and rush up the stairs, open the automatic door, and allow her to be sealed back inside, where I should be with her. The doorbell rings again, and I hurry to answer, greeting the dude with the boxes and accepting the pizza without a word. I shut the door, and right when I do, thunder claps and the lights go out. Oh shit, I think, and set the box down on the foyer table. Alana’s downstairs, and I can’t get to her without the electronic panel.