Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
“Right. I guess your dad assumed we wouldn’t need one since the housekeepers come by. We’ll have to pick one up.” I never thought of it either, and I’m still barely thinking about it right now. I can’t take my eyes off her tits in that shirt. “Are you wearing that today?”
“I’m wearing it right this very second.” She steps back, shaking her head. “Can you try to get my shoe?”
Am I supposed to let her leave the house in something like this? It’s still warm outside, hardly more than halfway through September, but it’s not like I’m asking her to wear a full-length gown. “You should cover up a little. Maybe put on a sweater over the top.”
“Seriously?” She looks down at herself, frowning. “Does it look bad?”
This is so fucking unfair. “You know you don’t look bad. That’s the point. What were we just talking about a couple of nights ago?”
“I’m sorry.” She folds her arms, the little tease. She has to know it pushes those gorgeous tits together, lifting them like she’s offering them to me. How much can a man take? “I didn’t know I needed to cover myself from head to toe, too. We never talked about that.”
“How am I supposed to keep you out of trouble if you walk around like that?”
“What kind of trouble are you talking about?” She bats her eyelashes, pretending to be shocked. “What? Would a man look at me? Oh, my gosh! What would I do?”
“Quit it,” I warn.
“No, you quit it.” She drops her arms, which I guess is good even though I’m disappointed. I’m only human. “You might be able to tell me where I can go and who I can hang out with, but you’re not going to tell me what to wear. This is my body, and I dress the way I want to. I’m not exposing anything, am I?” She drops her hands to her hips before doing a slow turn. She’s mouthwatering, top to bottom.
I drop to my knees next to the bed before she can catch sight of my expression, which by now has to spell out how much I want her. Here and now. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when some asshole thinks he can put his hands on you just because you’re walking around looking like that.”
“News flash, caveman. We live in the twenty-first century. And I’m wearing the same kind of clothes girls are wearing all over campus.” Now’s not the time to remind her of the sexual assault stats from college campuses, because yes, I looked them up. I wanted to have one of those facts in my back pocket to throw her way when I wanted to win an argument. Instead of throwing numbers at her, I reach for the sandal and bat it her way, sliding it across the bare floor.
“Thanks.” I watch as she slides her foot into it. Even that’s sexy. Focus. Get your shit together.
It’s been like this since Friday night. Saturday morning, she strolled into the kitchen in nothing but a nightshirt, when she always wears sweats or at least shorts to bed. She sat cross-legged on the couch, eating a bowl of cereal and watching TV while I did everything in my power not to stare at her legs and hope she’d shift just the right way to give me a glimpse of something more.
Yesterday morning, she convinced me to take her out for a few new outfits. It was boring as hell, and of course, she made me hold things for her as she picked them off the racks, but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was coming home and knowing she was trying on her new clothes with the bedroom door partly open. I walked past on the way to my room and found her pulling off a new shirt—and she wasn’t wearing a bra. I caught a glimpse of side boob before forcing myself to walk away before she could see me.
Is she doing this on purpose? I don’t want to accuse her outright. It will only give her more ammunition against me if she knows I’m dying for her. But if she’s doing it on purpose to tease me, I have to stop her. She’s just a kid; she has no idea what she’s fucking around with.
Yet it would mean admitting she’s getting to me. Admitting I notice what she’s doing. I don’t want that, either. What am I supposed to do here?
I swallow hard to dislodge the lump in my throat before trying again. “Just wear a cardigan. Please. Don’t make me tell your father.”
“Oh, we’re on that shit again?” I have to leave the room. I can’t even answer. It’s more important to get out of her bedroom, where it would be too easy to throw her on the bed and drape her legs over my shoulders.