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 pulls at me, maneuvering me on his lap so my legs are either side of his hips, his hardness beneath me. I sigh and my muscles unlock. We’re not pretending anymore. This feels so perfect, so right, like I’ve been waiting to come home to him and now I’m right where I’m meant to be. He tucks my bottom closer to him, and we slot together, our hips and chests pressing against each other. The thin cotton between us acts as the final barrier, and although it’s flimsy, it’s the only thing stopping Ben from owning me completely.
His hands drift up to the sides of my breasts, and I tip my head back, my entire body throbbing. Desperate.
I gasp. Because this—just this, the kissing and the closeness—is almost too much. We’re still fully clothed, and while things might seem pretty PG from the outside, on the inside? On the inside, we’re three seconds away from a nuclear explosion. My hands on his chest, I twist in his lap, circling my hips. He cups my breasts, his thumb grazing my nipple under the cotton.
“Ben,” I choke out, almost overwhelmed with sensation.
He lifts his hands, holding them out like he’s surrendering. I’m endlessly grateful and heavy with disappointment at the same time.
We press our foreheads together as if we’re trying to take a beat before exploring each other. Except we’re connected everywhere.
“This needs to . . . We should . . . We can’t do this here,” he says, finally finding his words. “Not now.”
I get it. He’s making the right decision, but I’m not quite sure how I’ll survive around him for another second without wanting more and more and more. And if not now, when?
Chapter Eighteen
I fold the note Ben left me on the nightstand, put it in my wallet, and then head out. I’ve slept in and it’s nearly nine. In his note, he said he would come and wake me if I needed to be up, but I feel terrible lazing away the morning in bed. I’m getting paid to be here. The least I can do is be awake. When I think back to last night, I can’t help but smile at the memory of his lips, his hands, his body against mine and the unspoken promise that we’ll pick up where we left off another time.
I see Grant coming toward me as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “They’re in the breakfast room,” he says with a smile. “Just down on your right.”
Moving down the hall, I glance at the wall opposite, covered in paintings. There’s a gold label attached to some of them, and I lean in to read Duke of Brandon. The painting is clearly hundreds of years old. I can’t imagine what it must be like to fill the shoes of your predecessor, to grow up knowing exactly what life has planned for you.
I have to call my dad as soon as I’m back at the hotel tonight.
Farther down the hall, I hear chatter behind a closed door. I twist the brass doorknob and open it an inch so I can see whether I’m in the right place. Someone pulls the door wide. It’s the duke. “Good morning, my dear. Welcome, welcome. We’re still waiting on my wife, but we’re not standing on ceremony. Let’s get you some tea.”
I catch Ben’s eye; he smiles and heads over. It’s the same smile as yesterday—the one with the dimple—and it’s completely infectious.
“Good morning,” he says as he approaches. I grin back at him reflexively, like I’m under his spell. I’ve spent enough time with Ben to know he’s not this good of an actor—he’s pleased to see me. And the tingling in my body that travels from every corner of me and heads right to my core tells me I’m pleased to see him too.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” He lowers his voice so he speaks just to me, and it feels so intimate I could be standing there in my bra and panties. He places his hand on my shoulder, and the heat from last night roars back to life. We lock eyes and I know he feels it too. He presses a kiss to the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I slip my hand to his waist and hook my thumb over his hip bone.
Boundaries have begun to blur. I can’t tell what’s for show and what’s real. I can almost believe we’re a newly engaged couple, come to stay with friends for the weekend.
Except I know I’m being paid.
He takes me by the hand and leads me around the table. Covered in a bright-white linen tablecloth, it’s set like we’re in a gigantic Victorian doll house, complete with a large fruit display in the middle, silverware I suspect is actually silver, and plates decorated with blousy flowers and gold accents.