Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Give me your hand,” he says.
I stick out my arm.
He takes it. When his fingers graze along my skin, my breath catches. My chest flips as he slides the watch onto me, inch by delicious inch. He’s not speedy. He’s slow, purposeful, dusting his fingers along my hand as he puts the titanium on me like it’s foreplay. By the time he reaches my wrist, I’m not sure how I’m still standing—every touch is so electric, so charged.
Is it this way for him too?
He meets my eyes, and the look in his is raw and hungry. It’s such a good look that I ache everywhere, a slow, thumping pulse that settles in my core. He flicks the timepiece closed, tightening it on my wrist, but it’s still loose on me. “The case diameter was designed for me,” he says.
An explanation, but one that hardly matters as he takes his time adjusting the loose watch, like he wants to make sure it’s worn in just the right way.
He finishes, then meets my gaze.
“It’s like a bracelet,” I say, holding up my wrist, letting it slide up and down.
Lake stares at my arm like he’s mesmerized, then swallows roughly. “Yeah, it does look like one on you.”
“It’s so light,” I say, then study the timepiece for a beat or two. It’s elegant and sophisticated and fun to play with. But it’s just play. That’s all. These watches are well over five figures. “Thank you for letting me touch it.”
“It’s touching you now,” he says, his voice a little husky, and it’s then that I realize Lake’s staring at the watch on me with something like jealousy, or maybe even longing in his eyes.
Like he’s jealous of…a watch?
A watch that’s been kissing my skin.
But that’s a ridiculous thought.
A ridiculous thought that’s making my heart cartwheel dangerously. I really need to focus on the reason I’m here.
I un-hook the watch and set it back in its soft case. “Thank you,” I say, then catch the time. It’s running out. “That’s a reminder I need to get to work picking out your wedding attire.”
I walk toward the back of the closet with the suits. “They’re as pretty as the watches.”
A charcoal three-piece suit. A midnight blue blazer and matching trousers. A maroon suit with a clever plaid pattern that screams cutting-edge-athlete hot.
“You can touch them too,” he says.
There’s a sultry subtext to the invitation. The permission.
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I coast my fingers along the fine fabric of a dark brown suit, the color of chocolate. I travel along the arm of a forest green jacket with the faintest of checkmarks on it. I move to the pants next, touching the expensive-looking material. My head spins with choices. My pulse thunders with possibilities. I’m picturing Lake in the smoky one, the midnight blue one, the one the color of an evergreen.
I linger on the last one for a few seconds longer, closing my eyes, imagining it on him.
“You like green. You like earthy colors,” he says from behind me.
I turn around. “I do. But that’s for me,” I say, then look him up and down, with his short dark hair, his cool eyes, his strong jaw.
But I’m always returning to his eyes. To the beauty in them, like cool blue gems. “This feels like you,” I say, gesturing to the midnight blue suit.
“Yeah?” He sounds like he’s questioning me.
“Definitely.”
“You sure?”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing or truly doubtful. “Yes,” I say, adamant.
“I should make sure though,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching as he grabs the suit from the rack, then nods to the door. “I’ll be right out.”
He’s going to put it on? But of course he is.
“Right. No problem,” I say, flustered, but trying to cover it up.
Did he think I was going to stay while he changed? He must have thought that. Am I misreading him again?
It’s kind of your thing, Remy. “I’ll be out here,” I say stupidly, then race out, shutting the door behind me.
I stand in his bedroom, but is this even any better? Since I’m now checking out his bed.
Right there in the middle of the room. Alaskan king and inviting with all those pillows, and the cream duvet.
I’m trying to think pure thoughts of sleep, but it’s hard when the rustle of fabric drifts past my ears, the zip of metal. He’s changing in there, and my mouth is dry. My lips, too, come to think of it.
“Be right back,” I say to the closet door, then head to the sunny kitchen, grab my bag from the chair, and root around for lip gloss in the side pocket. I need something to do. I land on metal first and tug out my lipstick. That’ll do. As I return to his bedroom, I’m slicking on ruby red lipstick right as the closet door swings open.