Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
The door opens, and I blink in the light that comes blaring out, startling me momentarily.
“Hey, Birdie, what’s up?” Jesse drawls out, using his nickname for me. He’s completely unbothered by my unexpected appearance, casually leaning against the door with one arm lifted over his head and a stupid smile on his stupid face.
“What’s. Up?” I repeat. “Are you serious right now, Jesse Sullivan? You interrupt my work meeting, where I was trying to finagle some information out of Oliver, and then you’re all ‘what’s up?’ like you didn’t fuck me over?”
His grin falters for a second but then returns with cocky arrogance. “Fuck you over? Is that what you’re here for?”
The question is loaded with dirty promises I know he can keep. Once upon a time, I would’ve said yes. Hell, I would’ve shrieked it as I was halfway down the hall to his bedroom, dropping clothes along the way like bread crumbs so he could find his way right to me.
That was then, and this is now. That hasn’t been our arrangement in a long time, and it’s definitely not what I’m here for tonight.
“No, and don’t try to distract me with all . . .” I wave my hand around at him in general, suddenly realizing that while I’m in a semirespectable shorts and T-shirt pajama set, Jesse is half-naked, wearing only gray athletic shorts and a sheen of sweat across his bare, muscular chest.
Jesse shifts, his stance matching mine with his feet spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, and a scowl on his face. “All what?”
I blurt, “Were you working out?”
That is not what I meant to say. But now that I’ve asked, I’m curious if he was pumping iron or pumping something else. Memories assail me of that image, and I’m reminded that I’m not wearing a bra beneath my shirt when it brushes over my hard nipples.
Jesse snorts, turning around and walking toward his kitchen. “Yeah, should’ve been in bed hours ago, but had some shit to work out. Throwing around some weight seemed preferable to throwing fists.”
I hear the fridge open and close, and debate whether I should go inside. Are we at the point where I need an invitation now, like a vampire? Or can I barge in uninvited like a regular visitor? I don’t know.
While I’m still deciding, Jesse reappears, slamming back a bottle of water. I watch as his throat works with each swallow and a single drip runs down his chin to his chest, making a trail I’d like to trace with my tongue. He finishes the bottle in one go and sighs as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You coming in or not?” he asks.
This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come. I’m playing with fire here. The only problem is, where Jesse’s concerned, I might as well be an arsonist. I think I’d happily set my world ablaze for him, burn myself to ashes, and while I’d be a shadow of my former self, he’d simply move on like nothing happened. It’s who he is—casual, fun, carefree. At least about his women, of which I’m just one of many.
“I . . . don’t . . . know . . . ,” I stammer. I glance down to my boots, the toes right at the threshold of the door.
Jesse moves closer, and I look up to find him scanning me from toes to head, not paying nearly as much attention to my boots as I was. No, his eyes are locked on my legs, hips, boobs, and then his eyes meet mine. He licks his lips, and for a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But instead, he inhales deeply. I wonder if he can smell me from there. He used to love burying his face in my hair—“breathing me in,” he called it.
“Well, if you’re gonna yell at me some more, could you do it in here so Mrs. Capshaw doesn’t complain to the police? I can’t afford another ‘disturbing the peace’ call.” As he says it, he drops a bottle onto the coffee table. “Peace offering.”
It’s a small bottle of my favorite Naked Mighty Mango juice, set right on the edge of the table like it’s going to lure me inside. “Why do you have that?” I demand. “I know you don’t drink them. Or do you think every woman you bring here will want some postcoital fruity drink? I’m surprised you don’t offer them a beer or water and be done with it.”
I never decided, but I’ve entered his home, scooping the bottle from the table and holding it out accusingly like it’s proof of his sleeping with any woman who’ll follow him home. And I know there are dozens. He can’t help it when he looks like a work-hardened sex god and can actually back it up by being amazing in bed.