Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“You already slept on me in the car,” he says, low and playful.
A soft laugh bursts from my throat, and I scoot a few more inches, resting my head on his chest. My body lines up with his. Our hips touch. My breasts are near his broad, strong chest. Our legs are so close I could drape one over his.
I glance down at my body to make sure I haven’t flung myself at him.
Whew.
Good. I’m still lying flat on my back.
I stay like this, not moving, because if I do, I’ll moan, I’ll groan, I’ll murmur. I’ll blurt out something dangerous like touch me, kiss me, take me.
Briefly, I try to focus on the screen, to zoom in on the secret agent. What would the king of impossible missions do in this risky situation?
He’d find a way out of danger. Clearly, the only path for me is to go full possum.
With Ethan Hunt somewhere in Prague, my mind drifts, my eyes flutter closed, and I fall asleep.
Later, I wake to a dark room. To a clock flashing 3:25 in bright green. To a TV screen showing the soft blue glow of the hotel’s pay-per-view menu.
And to a hand on my waist. To a big, strong body pressed to mine. To an arm slung across my stomach.
And something else.
Something hard against my butt.
Very hard. Very long.
Soft, steady breath flutters across my neck, the gentle whoosh of a sleeping man.
A man who is wrapped around me. Who’s snuggling me. Who’s erect.
I don’t even try to fight off a grin. Inside, I’m doing a dance. No, a striptease, because Jones is hard as he touches me.
But wait. I shouldn’t read anything into this. It’s not about me. It’s a three-thirty-in-the-morning erection. It’s a dream hard-on. It’s the body’s natural reaction to sleep.
Only, I want to read everything into it, especially as he murmurs something unintelligible and tugs me closer, lining my body up against his. Like that, he buries his face in my hair, and I melt into a puddle of woman as he spoons me, breathing in my hair, his lips close to my neck.
I should leave. But it’s my room.
And he’s sound asleep, so I can’t kick him out.
I have no choice but to stay like this, tangled up with him.
I close my eyes and pretend he’s mine for now. I pretend he belongs to me, and we’re together, all through the night. I drift off like that, and it feels as if I’m floating on a cloud.
When I wake at seven thirty, the bed is empty.
He’s gone.
17
JONES
“Jump!”
Cletus takes off on command, scurrying across my parents’ yard and flying through the old tire swing hanging from a tree.
“Dude!” I raise my arms, and he leaps at me. I bend to my knees as he hops onto my thighs, slathering me with a dog kiss. “Did you see that, Mom?”
My mom laughs from her post on the porch, raising her wineglass. “I don’t know who I’m more proud of—son or dog. Both have serious athletic skills.”
“Dog,” I answer as I put Cletus back on the grass and head to the deck. “The dog is way more talented.”
“What’s really impressive,” my dad deadpans as he spreads barbecue sauce on a chicken breast on the grill that Sunday, “is that this kid who hated school is now teaching his dog all sorts of tricks.”
“I didn’t hate school, Dad.”
My mom chuckles, slapping her thigh. “And he’s a comedian, too, Paul.”
He winks at her. “He always did make me laugh, Barbara.”
Moving behind my mom, I drop a kiss to her head. “I had a B-plus average in high school, and don’t you ever forget it.”
My dad flips a chicken breast. “How could she? You kicked and screamed every step of the way to that B-plus.”
I point my thumb at the house. “I’m going inside to see if I’ll be the recipient of less abuse from Trevor.”
“Good luck with that,” my dad says, and Cletus stays outside with my parents as I go inside, where Trevor has set up for his beer show. Since we’re having lunch with them today, we’re shooting here.
I slide the glass door closed and join him in the kitchen.
I spit a mouthful of pale ale in the bucket at the counter.
Shaking my head, I frown and stare longingly at the beer glass in my hand, which holds more of the tasty brew. “That pained me to expectorate.”
Trevor jerks his head back and raises his eyebrows in appreciation. “Look at you. Using your SAT words.”
“Thanks to you.”
He drums his fingers on the countertop. “But tell me more about the suffering you endured during the ejection of this beautiful IPA.”
He loves to talk in this over-the-top highfalutin manner for his show, and it cracks me up. But my job is to remain immune, a deadpan sidekick color commentator. “Allow me to explain. It pained me so greatly because this beer is absolutely delicious. It’s what I want to drink while I kick back, relax, and watch something as good as, say, Mission: Impossible.”