Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Hello.” He taps the couch beside him. “Sit here.”
My stomach flips, and I walk around the table and slide in beside him.
“Hi.” He takes my face into his hands and kisses me softly. “You’re late,” he purrs.
And you’re perfect.
Chapter 15
“Good things are worth the wait?” I pull out of his grip, trying my best to play hard to get.
He fills two wineglasses from a bottle that is sitting in ice on the table and passes one to me.
“Champagne.” I smile. “What are we celebrating?”
“Well”—he taps his glass on mine and takes a sip—“we’re here.” He raises his eyebrow playfully.
“You mean, we made it through our first meltdown?” I smirk.
He breaks into a breathtakingly beautiful smile. “Did we, though?”
His smile does things to me. I get flutters all the way to my toes. “We did.”
He leans in and kisses me again. His lips linger over mine, and I begin to lose sight of the mission.
What is it about this man?
He kisses me again and again, and my eyes close against my will.
Focus.
“Henley.” I smile shyly as I break out of his grip. “We are in a crowded restaurant.”
“I don’t give a fuck where we are. I want to kiss you.”
“And you will.” I take his hand in mine and hold it against my other hand, resting on his thick quad muscle. “Later.” I smile.
He exhales heavily. “I haven’t seen you all week.”
He missed me.
“I know,” I reply as if I don’t care.
“What have you been doing all week?” he asks as he sips his champagne.
Missing you.
“Working, painting.”
“Did Mason help you?”
“No.”
“What about the other fucking idiot?”
I giggle. “You mean my interior designer, the one you’re jealous of, Joel?”
“I am not jealous of Joel,” he fires back. “He’s . . .” He pauses as if trying to choose his words carefully.
I cut in. “Touching your things.”
He smirks at my analogy. “Yes.”
“So I’m your thing now?”
His dark eyes drop to my lips. “Yes.”
The air crackles between us as we stare at each other.
You are most definitely my thing.
He grabs my face and kisses me again, his tongue swiping through my open lips, and I feel it between my legs.
I remember where we are and pull out of his kiss. “Why is it that whenever we are together, we act like horny teenagers?”
“Because you make me fucking horny, that’s why.”
I smile and pick up my champagne glass. “Can we . . .” I pause.
“Can we what?”
“Can we just have a normal date where we aren’t trying to fuck each other at the table?”
“But I do want to fuck you on the table?”
I giggle. “You know what I mean.”
“You want a normal date?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He smirks and sips his champagne. “Date me.”
The thing about champagne is this: you are supposed to drink one or two glasses to celebrate an event.
Not drink three bottles until you are both laughing uncontrollably at the table.
The conversation never runs dry with us. We laugh and chat as if we are old friends.
And although we are completely different, we are on the same wavelength. We have the same sense of humor.
I’m not imagining it; this is way more than sex.
“Okay.” Henley smirks. “Ten things.”
“What?”
“Tell me ten things about you that I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes as I try and think. “Umm.” I twist my lips. “One . . . I love sex.”
“I know that already. That doesn’t count.” He sips his champagne and smiles like a loon.
He likes this game.
I giggle. “Right.” I think for a bit. “Two . . . I wanted to be a ballerina when I was a child.”
“Why aren’t you?” He frowns.
“Because I have two left feet and dance like a baboon.”
“I did notice that.”
I laugh out loud, and he does too.
“Three . . . I hate cilantro with a passion. I’m even in the I Hate Cilantro Facebook group.”
He frowns as he listens. “There’s a Facebook page for that?”
“Uh-huh.” I giggle, and he does too. Why is everything we say to each other hilarious?
“Go on, seven more things,” he says.
“Four . . . I’ve never had a lesbian fantasy.”
“Oh . . . not a fan of that one.” He screws up his face in disappointment. “Please lie to me and tell me you have.”
“Okay, I take that back.” I laugh again. “Five . . . every night I dream of having a threesome with a guy and another girl.”
“Better.” He raises his champagne glass toward me.
I smile goofily.
He’s so fun.
I try to think of something else he doesn’t know about me. “Six . . . never watched Game of Thrones.”
He nods as he listens.
“Seven . . . I wish my dog wasn’t called Barry.”
“Don’t we fucking all?”
We both burst out laughing again.
“Eight . . . I’m a great swimmer.”
“Are you lying?” He refills my champagne glass.
“Totally.”
“You’re good at other things.” He shrugs. “Can’t be greedy.”
“I know, right.” I giggle, and he taps his glass against mine for our fiftieth cheers of the night.