Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
She picks up her glass of wine and it dangles in her hand side to side. “Good save.” She brings it to her lips and takes a sip. “Very good save.” The smile she gives me makes everything in me come to life.
“You know what we should do?” I pick up my own glass of wine and finish it. “We should play a game.”
“Oh?” She puts down her empty wineglass. “I like this already.”
“Of course you would.” I pick up the bottle of wine and fill her glass, emptying the bottle. “Unless you lose, then there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I can lose a game and be a good sport,” she counters and I snort.
“Tell me when that happened.” I push away from the table. “I need a date and time.”
“I don’t know the exact date or time,” she backpedals, picking up her glass of wine. “But the four of us were having a Connect Four tournament.”
My mouth hangs open when she brings up the memory. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It slipped out of my hands,” she defends herself. “Joshua put his face in front of me and—” She tries to hide the smile with the glass.
“And you picked up the Connect Four tower and bopped him on the head with it,” I remind her, and she looks to the corner of the room trying her hardest not to laugh. “He got five stitches at his hairline.”
“He was lucky I didn’t stab it in his eyeball,” she retorts. “He was taunting me the whole night. I win! I win! I win!” she mimics what she thinks his voice sounded like. “Loser.” She even uses her finger in an L on her forehead. “He taunted me. I had no choice but to defend my honor.”
“Your parents forbade us to play any more games ever. They threw out all the games.”
“And again, whose fault was that?” She waits for me to answer her, and when I take half a second longer than she wants me to take, she answers, “It was Joshua’s fault. It’s always Joshua’s fault for pushing my buttons.”
“Elizabeth.” I stop beside her chair to take her plate, and she looks up at me, and all I can do is bend my head and kiss her lips. “The minute you are going to lose, something comes over you.”
“I don’t like to lose,” she admits softly, her hand coming up to cup my cheek.
“Well, the good news is, the game we are going to play”—I turn and walk back into the kitchen, putting the plates in the sink—“there are no winners or losers.”
Her face goes into a grimace. “I already don’t like it. There is always a winner and a loser.”
“This one, we can all be winners,” I clarify and she fake vomits.
“That’s like everyone should get a trophy, which sucks.” She shakes her head. “If I win, I win. I want to be the only one with a trophy. Not have everyone else with a trophy so they don’t cry.”
“Wow.” I try not to laugh at her. “Let’s not have you be in charge of the children at the wedding.”
She pffts but takes a sip of wine. “What can I do to help speed this game playing and me winning along?”
“You can go and sit on the couch and look at the beautiful tree and wait for me.” I point to the Christmas tree in the corner, which lights up the room. I clean up the kitchen but she puts her glass on the table and comes over to help me. “I thought I told you to go and sit on the couch.”
“Nate,” she says my name and her tone is playful, “the only time I want to follow your orders”—she looks up at me—“is when you tell me to get on top or when you tell me face down, ass up.”
My cock immediately gets hard at her words. “Good to know.” Those are the only lame words I can say. I can’t even follow that up with my own dirty talk because I’ll forget all about cleaning the kitchen and throw her over my shoulder.
“There”—she points to my face—“right there, what were you just thinking?”
“Why?” I ask her.
“Your eyes changed, and the softness was gone out of your face.” She takes the pot from the stove and then looks for a Tupperware to store the rest of the pasta in.
“I’m not telling you my deep personal thoughts.” I rinse off the plates and put them in the dishwasher.
“It was about me”—she chuckles—“and sex.”
“How do you know that?” I ask her.
“You had almost the same look on your face as when you jumped into the shower with me.” She looks over at me as she stores the leftovers in my fridge.
“I guess you’ll just have to wonder what it was about,” I mumble not ready to give in to her and admit she was right.