Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
He didn’t leer at me or look uncomfortable. Instead, he started kissing a line from my jaw to my neck, pausing only when the collar of his shirt got in the way.
“You going to let me read it, August?”
“I thought you said you had enough ideas of your own?”
“I’m not too old to learn a few new tricks. Or too stupid to throw away a chance to get inside that head of yours.”
“Good answer.” I pulled off the shirt myself and his work-roughened hands cupped my ass, lifting me onto the counter in a move so smooth it made me laugh.
I glanced down at his tented boxers, delighted and intrigued at the sight of the condom tucked into the waistband. “What would you say if I told you I wrote a scene in a kitchen that started a little like this?”
That smile. I’d never been able to resist it. “I’d say great minds think alike, because I’ve imagined you here since you let me inside the door, Gus. Occasionally peanut butter was involved.”
I pressed a finger to his lips. “I like how your mind works, but don’t say that word again or we’ll have an unwanted audience.”
When I dropped my hand, he rewarded me with a kiss that had me reaching blindly for his shorts, more than ready to make our fantasy a reality.
“Let me inside, August,” he said softly after he’d slid on protection and positioned me at the edge of the counter.
He already was, I thought as he pushed home.
That part of me I was trying to ignore whispered all sorts of dire warnings about the cost I might have to pay for this later. Nothing that felt this good ever lasted.
But if I was headed for another crash, I’d be damned if I didn’t let myself at least enjoy the ride this time.
19
AUGUST
A few days later, I was headed down I-69, sticky with sweat, my thighs a little shaky and my abs aching from the strenuous positions I’d already been in this morning.
It’s not what you think.
Wade had actually left for the garage when I was still dead to the world, which turned out to be a good thing, since Bernadette showed up at my door before my first cup of coffee, armed with a couple of yoga mats and a set of two-pound weights. She’d somehow managed to convince me to do a series of stretches and sun salutations with her by the pool, and then run me through a small core-centric circuit that she expected me to repeat daily for the next six weeks.
Daily.
I tried to explain that, as the reigning queen of Procrasti-Nation and a lazy so-and-so, I wasn’t ready for the advanced moves she was showing me. She told me to stop complaining, because she had eighty-year-old clients that did more every day. And if I was going to race a car, I had to be physically as well as mentally prepared.
I couldn’t argue with that, but I could still whine, because no matter how good it eventually made you feel, starting a workout routine after a lengthy stint as a couch potato sucked.
She followed up the circuit with this mystery road trip, basically ordering me to put on long pants and sneakers and bring the racing helmet and gloves I’d bought online. I didn’t argue too much about that either. I didn’t even force her to tell me where we were going, despite my trepidation.
My only explanation was that I was in a strangely agreeable mood lately. It must be all the sex I was having with her brother.
So now we were driving south on the interstate, with Jiminy’s windows rolled down and the hot wind tearing at our hair (when the lunch-hour traffic permitted us to go that fast).
Bernie checked her phone and then shook her head with a groan. “Aw man, what did I do to deserve this?”
“What is it?”
“Phoebe is running through her yoga moves and sending me supportive messages that she doesn’t think I know are recycled Taylor Swift lyrics.” She turned toward me. “Where did I go wrong, August? I love rock and roll. I sing rock and roll. And my daughter is playing her favorite Taylor songs on a loop every day and calling this her ‘Pregnancy Era.’”
Since I had Swiftie leanings myself and didn’t want to sound unsupportive, I changed the subject. “You said we’d talk meeting strategy on this road to nowhere you’ve got me driving.”
An impatient Gene had scheduled our Lemons conversation for tomorrow night. Apparently, there would be an official exchange of money for the car title, along with discussions of timelines and training schedules for the race. Since I’d agreed to work at the icehouse for a few extra hours because Patty had an appointment, we were all meeting up there when I was done.