Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Right.
Definitely awkward.
Everyone copes with news bombs differently. Some sweat it out in the gym or go for a walk or meet friends at the local pub and get shitfaced…
That last option was mighty tempting, but my bestie lived in Cali and hadn’t quite forgiven me for moving a million miles away from home. I thought about calling Maxine. I could usually talk her into a monster round of karaoke and five to ten shots of Patrón, but she was Roman’s friend too. Besides, the last thing Roman would want to do after a seven-hour flight was rescue my drunken ass from a crowded karaoke bar. Been there, done that…more than once.
Nope, ice cream was my friend.
I cleared out Sainsbury’s selection of frozen yumminess after work—chocolate chip, chocolate brownie chunk, chocolate salted caramel…yes, yes, yes. Then I made my way to the station, sneaking bites on the train ride home as I mulled over the weirdness of meeting my husband’s ex-wife.
Fuck, she was so…beautiful. And smart. But also, a complete and utter dumbshit. I mean, who in their right mind would let go of someone as wonderful, handsome, and amazing as Roman Crawford?
No one, that was who.
Elena was his past. Over and done. Roman was my husband, and this was our flat and our cat and—this was a good life. I loved him; I appreciated him. I would never jeopardize his happiness the way she had.
Somehow, I had to prove that to him. Tonight.
I could start by making his favorite pasta, serving his favorite wine, and prepping my ass with a butt plug to make our reunion as sexy as possible. Yep, I’d wow him with my culinary prowess, sommelier skills, and my ho-like self.
As soon as I figured out where to put all this fucking ice cream.
A word of caution…when you’re stressed out, pressed for time, and feeling slightly unhinged, choose the sexiest items on your to-do list and definitely order takeaway.
Needless to say, I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to do it all, and I wanted it to be perfect.
So, I tossed my suit jacket onto the sofa, fed Lord Licorice, then shoved all but one pint of chocolate brownie chunk ice cream into the freezer, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work. According to my calculations, I had an hour and a half till Roman walked in the door. Plenty of time.
Allegedly.
Chopping veggies, browning the meat, and prepping the sauce took for-fucking-ever, though. My nerves were fraying at the seams, and the only surefire way to calm myself was to crank up my happy-place playlist and uncork a bottle of our best Pinot.
My cat licked his paws, eyeing me warily as I bopped my hips and sang off-key to a Destiny’s Child classic. I was nearing the mellow zone when Roman called to let me know he was on his way home.
“Home?” I squeaked.
“Yeah, did you get my texts? My flight landed early.”
“Wow. That’s a new one.”
“Feels like an early Christmas present,” Roman hummed in a sex-hazed voice that went straight to my cock. “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”
“Me too. Hurry. I mean, be safe, but…hurry. I love you and I miss you and—”
“I love you too. See you soon.”
I sighed like a lovesick fool, stepping away from my marinara as it bubbled and popped. I was pretty sure I’d turned the burner down, but don’t quote me. My mind was already barreling toward item number three on my list.
Operation Sexy.
We owned a couple of butt plugs, but they rarely got much use. I lacked the patience required to insert one myself, and whenever Roman jumped in to lend a hand…he usually lent his dick too, rendering the sex toy superfluous. Fine by me. I didn’t need prolonged foreplay. I just needed him.
Tonight was no different. I was more desperate for him than ever.
I was consumed with an irrational desire to smother him with…me. I wanted to wine him, dine him, amuse him with clever repartee by candlelight, and listen to stories about his week away. I wanted to lead him into our room where—
Fuck me.
I’d forgotten to change the sheets.
Ugh.
I turned up a Janet Jackson remix and danced my way to the linen closet. Then I stripped our king-sized bed and remade it with clean sheets, leaving the duvet on a nearby chair before sifting through the small toy collection we kept behind the lube in my nightstand drawer. I chose the smallest plug and tossed it onto the mattress, unbuttoning my oxford shirt as I worked out my timing.
Cleanliness was crucial when inserting a steel knob up your bum, and I had just enough time to shower if I was quick about it.
I washed up and dried off as if I were trying to beat the clock, and with a towel tied at my waist, I inspected the plug, wondering how the fuck I’d get this thing in me. I was very out of practice. Should I lie on my back or reach around and check out my progress in the full-length mirror in the corner?