Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I’m both excited and peeved. I hate the cold, but if I have to choose between staying indoors and trekking through miles of snow, I will always pick the latter.
Though I need to keep that a secret from Mikhail.
“We’re going outside?” I try to say “we’re” with no emotion whatsoever. I shouldn’t have bothered. Possessiveness blazes through Mikhail’s eyes half a second before he bobs his head.
“As in the backyard or…?” I leave my question open for him to answer as he sees fit.
He follows my plan nicely.
There’s always a first time for anything.
“I thought we could go for a ride.”
With my excitement too blistering to harness, I eagerly nod.
My head bobs up and down for barely a second before I freeze and purse my lips.
“Ride?” I don’t give him a chance to speak. “You bought a motorcycle?” Again, he nods, and then I speak at a million miles an hour. “When? Is it custom like you wanted? Or did you buy it off the floor? What color did you get? I hope you didn’t go for the burnt orange paintwork the dealer suggested. That was hideous.”
I laugh, stupidly nervous. I want to pretend I’m clueless about why I am anxious, but that would be a lie.
When we discussed Mikhail getting a motorcycle license, our lengthy talks included a lot of naughty, we’ll-be-in-our-graves-before-we-turn-thirty scenarios.
Two people who are meant to hate each other can’t be hopeful about crossing those experiences off their bucket list, so I have no right to be nervous.
Mikhail’s smile widens, shifting from jealous to hungry and wolfish. “You’ll find out.”
His reply seems unfinished.
I learn why when he nudges his head to the breakfast nook and says, “After you’ve had breakfast.”
I snarl, baring my teeth. Even with the chef going all out, nothing stands out as appetizing—except perhaps the man seated behind the layers of calorie-laden food.
I’d happily eat him.
Heat burns through me when Mikhail angles his head before cocking a dark brow.
Anyone would swear he heard my private thoughts.
I try to save face. “There’s nothing on offer I want to waste calories on.”
With his gaze hooded, Mikhail leans back in his seat and then leisurely glides his eyes up my body. I’m not wearing a bra. I rarely do while sleeping. But instead of berating myself for being a prick tease when my braless state has his eyes lingering on my breasts longer than an acceptable glance, I mentally high-five myself.
His baby blues haze with lust as he drinks in my practically naked form. My pajamas cling to my body like a second skin, the thinness of their material sparser than a lace glove.
I nearly combust when he wets his lips while returning his eyes to my face. There’s so much tension, so much chemistry, that my pussy grows wet.
Mikhail has charm by the mile and a face that could stop traffic.
I am under his spell in an instant.
“Emerson?” Just the way he says my name makes me whimper. It is virile and hot.
I swallow thickly before attempting a reply. “Yeah.”
His smile ensures nothing but sex is on my mind. As do the words he speaks next. “Get your fine ass over here and eat something before I feed you the one thing I know won’t screw up your calorie count.” A needy whimper escapes me. “It will dip it into the negative.”
We always joked that cum is a negative-calorie food because of how many calories you burn preparing the feast.
I hesitate, and it makes the tension roasting. Then I join him in the nook like I wouldn’t give everything I have to pretend he didn’t break my heart.
Chapter 18
Mikhail
Acocky smirk hikes one side of my mouth high when Emerson slips into the booth and then grabs a slice of toast from a rack on her right. I’m not smug because she followed a warning that I would have enforced. It’s from the way her eyes bounce between the oversized catering tub of peanut butter and the freshly made jam, her nose screwed up in contemplation.
She settles for the jam, making me as happy as a pig in mud.
Her temporary wave of the white flag keeps the tension manageable and sees me enjoying more of the spread in front of us. I sample a little of each dish on offer. Emerson consumes one piece of toast, minus the crust.
“You can’t keep skipping meals. It isn’t healthy.”
“Tell that to your cardiologist when he’s squeezing the fat out of your arteries from eating that.” She jerks her head to the strips of bacon laden with maple syrup. Never one to diss other people’s eating habits, she shrugs before saying, “Breakfast has never been my thing.”
“Since?”
Her eyes flare with an array of responses.
Since you made up that cum is a negative-calorie food.
Since it forced you to show you care by reminding me of its importance.