Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Turner: It’s exactly like that.
Poppy: Are you… flirting with me???
Turner: Always.
Poppy: So NOW what?
Turner: I flirt harder, and you flirt back.
Poppy: You think I don’t know how to flirt back?
Turner: I know you do. Don’t make me carry the weight of this sexual tension all on my own….
Poppy: Poor thing. You must be exhausted
Poppy: Can I ask you something?
Turner: Yes
Poppy: You knew I wasn’t going to stay in that house very long, right?
Turner: Maybe. But I didn’t think you’d leave so soon.
Poppy: But you kind of understood why I left.
Turner: I guess.
Poppy: After that party Cash threw, I knew it wasn’t the environment I was comfortable with, NOT that that’s the reason I left. But it didn’t help, you know? And after your sister spent the night, it feels like we’re sneaking around, which makes no sense because we are grown-ass adults.
Turner: Do you ACTUALLY care what other people think? My sister is in college. Her boyfriend’s name is Blayke – with a Y. And you’re worried she’s going to judge you? Shit, she LOVES you, she’s texted me a dozen times asking how you are.
Poppy: That’s not what I meant. It’s not your sister. Or the party. Not exactly…
Poppy: It’s you.
Turner: Me? Are you mad because you have a crush on me???
Poppy: I’m one deep breath away from falling completely. And I panicked. So I left.
Turner: No. I’m done pretending like I’m not completely gone for you.
Poppy: This is dangerous territory.
Turner: Exactly. So ask me again: NOW WHAT.
Poppy: Alright.
Poppy: Now what…?
Turner: Now I date you. Properly. Not secretly. I take you out. I pick you up. We flirt with each other, and you pretend you’re the kind of girl who doesn’t kiss on the first date.
Poppy: Maybe I AM the kind of girl who doesn’t kiss on the first date.
Turner: Then I’ll just have to make the second date unforgettable.
Poppy: You’re making me blush…
Turner: I love it when you blush. I miss seeing that
Poppy: Oh yeah? What else do you miss?
Turner: I’ll tell you if you tell me.
Poppy: Deal
Turner: I miss your laugh and how your spine shivers when I’m turning you on but you don’t want to admit it.
Poppy: Ohhh…
Turner: Yeah. So fucking hot.
Poppy: Okay. My turn.
Poppy: I miss… your thick thighs. And the scruff on your jawline when you skipped a day shaving. Makes you look so rugged, and it makes me want to sit on your face.
Turner: YOU CANNOT SAY SHIT LIKE THAT.
Poppy: Oh, I think I can say whatever I want…
Tuner: Don’t stop. Keep going so I can die violently from horniness.
Poppy: Violently??!?
Turner: Might need a medic. I’m about five seconds from speeding to your house with zero fucks for traffic laws.
poppy
. . .
The thing about Turner and I is… we never back down from a challenge. Apparently, we’re both addicted to making our lives more difficult.
Not in a dangerous way; but in a “let’s see how long you can sit across from me at a rooftop bar, lit by string lights and my freshly glossed lips, without touching me once” kind of way.
Because that’s the game we’re playing tonight.
No touching.
No casual knee brushing.
No protective hand on the small of my back. No stray fingers wrapping around the stem of my wine glass under the guise of helping me steady it if I get a baby bit tipsy.
Just looks. Just words.
Restraint is the name of the game…
Basically the same way we’d played the “no making noise” game the last time we’d had sex. I sigh. There’s something so wickedly satisfying about watching him squirm when all he wants to do is drag you into his lap and ruin your lipstick.
Turner looks good enough to lick.
Black button-down shirt, open at the throat. Forearms braced on the high-top table like a damn GQ ad. His gaze? Lethal. Laser-focused like he's already making a list of ways to destroy me once the game is over…
My skin is hot, and my body is on fire but I’m thriving.
“I can do this,” he says casually, sipping his drink, fingers wrapped around a crystal cocktail glass, amber liquid swirling. “I have self-control.”
I lift my glass, tilt my head, and take a slow sip of wine. Let the rim graze my lips.
“You sure ‘bout that?” I ask, voice syrupy and innocent. “Because your jaw’s been clenched since I crossed my legs.”
He sets his drink down with precision and rests his chin on his hand.
“I’m fine.”
I uncross my legs again and when I do, his eyes track the movements.
Of course my dress doesn’t help. I wore this shit on purpose to remind him what he’s been missing since I moved out (not that he needed it). It’s black. Short. The hem hits mid-thigh and threatens to climb higher every time I shift in my seat. The fabric hugs like a second skin—satin, maybe, or some kind of sin-spun velvet.