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)
“Are you laughing at me?” I snap.
“No, I swear I’m not. It’s just . . . you, Wren Ford, are jealous, over some girl I can’t even remember. That’s hilarious,” he manages to get out around his bitter laughs.
“Why?” I slam my arms crossed over my chest and glare at him. I probably look like a pouting child, but I can’t find the emotional space to care.
Jesse leans forward, putting his hands on the blanket so he can get right in my face. Nose to nose, breath mingling, he speaks slowly and clearly, “Because I have been in love with you for so long that I haven’t so much as looked at another woman since well before the first time we fucked.”
I make a noise, beginning my next argument, but he’s succeeded in blanking my entire brain of any actual thought or words, a feat I didn’t think possible given that I typically have entire monologues running in the background of my mind.
“You . . . what?” That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. I need him to explain what he said again because that makes zero sense to me.
His lips land on mine, soft and sure, and in total shock, I freeze like a deer in headlights—eyes open, mouth open, and breath held. I’m trying to jump-start my brain to decide how I feel about this and analyze what’s happening, but after the smallest, quickest taste, he pulls back and murmurs, “Not yet.”
It seems like he’s talking to himself, not me. But the kiss makes me pliable, and curious.
He sits down in front of me, pulling my V’d legs over his outstretched ones, until we’re so close that one tug of a zipper and a little lift could have me impaled on him. Not that I’m thinking about that. Nope, not a bit, not remembering how he always stretched me and filled me just right and it’s been so long since I’ve had that. Not thinking about that at all, because there might not be much physical space between us after he gets us arranged the way he wants, but there’s an entire emotional void filled with hurt, pain, and I’m beginning to think a lot of misunderstanding.
“The last time we fucked, let me tell you what I remember,” he starts, and though I’m not sure I want to hear this, I don’t stop him. “That was around the time Alan and Meredith were going through it and we were damn near life-boating him home every day after work. She was gone a couple of nights a week, and Alan would’ve been alone. We didn’t trust him not to drink himself stupid, so when she was gone, we rallied for him. That night, when I told you I couldn’t get dinner because I was meeting the guys for pool? It was for Alan.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I believe him. There’s pain and history in his words, an entire story I don’t know. “Are Alan and Meredith okay?” I ask gently.
I can feel his relief when he smiles widely. “Yeah, they’re great. Meredith’s healthy now, so they’re using Alan’s medical insurance for something much better—their baby.”
“That’s awesome. I’m happy for them.” I truly am, and if what Jesse’s saying is the truth, all those declined dinner invitations that I threaded through with so much meaning actually meant something else entirely. That Jesse is a good friend. “You weren’t telling me no because you didn’t want to be seen with me?”
It’s a dangerous question, entirely too revealing of my insecurities and fears, but Jesse laughs like I’m teasing him.
“Woman, you could ride me down the middle of Main Street like your damn pony if that’s what you wanted. I would be proud to be seen with you if you could get off your high horse for a fucking minute.”
Anger rises instantly at being called “snobby” in a roundabout way, but something else he said comes back to me. At the moment, I’d gotten stuck on the “love” thing he said, but there was more. Pointing back and forth between us and figuring it out as I go, I say, “You think . . . that I think . . . that I’m better than you? You said I was slumming it with you, but I don’t think that at all.”
“How could you not? You’re Wren Ford, and I’m . . . this.” He throws his hands out like I’m supposed to see something that I’m entirely blind to.
“This?” I place the tip of my nail into his chest and push him back a bit until he rests on his hands behind him, but he’s lifting his chest, wanting more of my touch. “You mean this man—who works hard, who cares about his family, and would do anything for the people important to him? This man with eyes I want to drown in, a filthy mouth I want to drench, and a body I want to mark all over. The man I dream about every time I wear his shirt to bed, touch myself, and whose name I say every time I come. Is that the man you’re talking about?”