Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
He half chokes on his lobster and reaches for a glass of water. “Jesus, Tuesday. You think it’s better if I take them to dinner, pretend I want a relationship, fuck them, and never see them again?”
I think about it. “I suppose not.”
“I don’t promise what I can’t deliver.”
“It’s good, I guess. You don’t promise them cake and serve them spaghetti. They want your spaghetti, they can have your spaghetti, but you’re not giving them cake.” The words hang in the air, and I can almost hear the clink and hiss of our brains catching up to what I just said.
“Interesting euphemism,” he says. “If you’re implying I’m a selfish . . . lover—”
He stops as my jaw hits the table and my eyes pop out on springs. “I wasn’t talking about your sexual technique.”
“I’ve never had any complaints,” he says, silencing me. “For the record, I like to give cake. Lots of cake. Cake is a favorite of mine, as you know. And further, for the record, there’s nothing . . . noodle-y about me.”
My face heats like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my cheeks. Ben laughs as I slowly turn puce, but I can’t look away from him. I’m a thousand times dead and also incredibly turned on. I’m officially a horny zombie with a staring problem.
We manage to get through the rest of dinner without further euphemisms or any more moments where I’m too embarrassed to breathe. We talk about where we went to college, what our favorite TV shows are—not surprisingly, he doesn’t watch much of anything other than the news. He asks me lots of questions and patiently listens, which I realize isn’t something I’m used to. Jed used to talk a lot. It suited me to let him, I think. But it’s nice to have Ben listen. Another quality to add to the growing list.
“What about you? I had Daniel De Luca as my fantasy guy growing up. Who was yours?” I ask.
“I don’t remember having a celebrity crush, if that’s what you mean.”
“Were you always so focused on work? You didn’t have a Scarlett Johansson poster taped on your bedroom wall along with your copy of the Financial Times?”
He rolls his eyes and stands. We both take our plates back to the counter, where he flips down the dishwasher door and loads his plate and silverware into the machine. It’s oddly endearing to watch a man who’s clearly so wealthy do something I’m sure Lera would be more than happy to do. He reaches for the plate I’m holding, and our fingers brush and electricity sparks between us.
His eyes dart to mine. “Sorry,” he mutters as he places my plate in the dishwasher.
“Yeah, you can’t apologize for touching me when we’re at the duke’s pad,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah, probably not.” He straightens, and I step toward him.
“We should . . . practice,” I say.
“Practice what?” he asks. “Accidentally touching each other?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I should give you a pat-down or something.”
We stand opposite each other, and I shift my weight from one leg to the other.
“This is hopelessly awkward. Engaged couples aren’t this . . . uncoordinated.” I hold out my hand as if I’m going to shake his. “Take my hand. We haven’t even—”
He slides his hand into mine. I lift my gaze as his warm palm envelops mine, his fingers tangling around my wrist. I hold up my free palm. “Your hands are huge.”
He releases my hand and puts his palm to mine. I look like I’m Alice in Wonderland and just took the Drink Me potion. I breathe in his musky scent that reminds me of an open fire and toasted marshmallows.
He brings his other hand up, moving the wisps of hair around my face, winding them around my ear.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, a little dizzy. “We need to be comfortable being physical with each other.”
He releases my hand, and I catch his wrist and place his hand on my hip. “Like this.” I look up to him, and his eyes are wide, following my every move. “Now, you put my hand where—”
He takes my hand in his and places it on his chest, over his heart.
My fingers press against his solid pectoral muscles, and I pull in a breath. “Yes. Good.” I reach for his other hand and place it on my other hip. His hands are firm and hold me in place. I wrap a hand around the back of his neck, rising up to my tiptoes and pressing against him for balance.
He pulls me even closer, his hands sliding around my waist and up my back. Every part of me is throbbing. My head, my heart, between my legs.
I’m needy for more of him.
His gaze flits between my eyes and my mouth. There’s a deep ache in the core of me, echoing, begging to be soothed.