Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Holy Hannah bananas.
It’s not his size that’s captivating. It’s the whole deal. It’s his symmetry and how substantial he is. How real. How much space he takes up inside this little lounge, and immediately, inside me.
No! Shit, wait. That’s not what I mean.
I’m staring. Fuck.
I don’t stop, even though I should. Somehow, should means do it harder.
His black button-up shirt strains over huge shoulders, and the black bartender apron draped over his chest is dwarfed by his height and breadth. His hair is shaved short on the sides and long and wavy in the middle.
Fuck. This guy is large enough to snap me in half.
My mind blanks, then goes straight to, I bet he fucks hard. And two more words. Multiple. Orgasms.
Considering that I struggle to even get to one most of the time, multiple is a daunting prospect.
His face is so carved that it’s intimidating.
His eyes snap straight to mine, and I quickly avert my gaze, whipping my head around like I wasn’t just sizing him up with extreme come-hither longing. I’m not fast enough that I don’t notice the insane whisky hue of his eyes. They’re not catlike, but how appropriate for a bartender.
Kevin? Kevin who? Kevin can keep his three sexy ladies, all the times he made me feel less than worthy, and his cheating assholishness.
I’m kidding, at least about the front half of that. I do finally understand that saying about getting over by getting under.
I don’t believe love at first sight is a thing, but I do believe in lots of different types of love, and I certainly believe in lust. Because right now, I’m getting freaking shivers that have nothing to do with being practically naked under this coat and everything to do with being practically naked under this coat just a few feet from the hottest man in the known universe.
I’m shit at feigning nonchalance, but I walk away from the bar and ogle the piano at the back. It’s just as lovely, but unlike the Viking/barber/bartender/probable sex god, it doesn’t have any hard angles. It’s ornate, with scalloped edges and carved feet with scrolling designs, and is either mahogany or rosewood.
Two steps closer, and I know it’s rosewood.
Another two, and I can read the gold writing.
Holy. Fucking. Mothercluckers.
Seriously? What on earth is a Centennial Concert Grand Piano doing in here? Not only is the instrument beautiful, but you pretty much have to be richer than god to afford it. Think house prices. I’m not as up-to-date on my piano history as I should be, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a hundred and fifty years old.
The keyboard is pristine, shadows dancing over it from the low lighting and the sconces on the walls. What would it be like to sit down and play such a magnificent instrument? Just the thought makes my brain want to explode through the top of my skull.
I carefully back away before I do something idiotic, like sit down on the bench, which isn’t nearly as ornate and not from the same era. Knowing my luck tonight, I’d probably break it. I’m not in the mood to have to sell a body part to pay for the damage. I already had my appendix taken out when I was sixteen. I really need all my other organs.
I can’t just stand here and stare at this gorgeous force of nature piano all night. I wish. I need a phone. And a drink. Probably not in that order. I force myself to leave the beautiful instrument. As soon as I walk across the room back to the bar, the shivers start again, breaking out over my arms and legs, and probably my belly and breasts, too, but I’m trying not to focus on those parts so much. It’s hard when my nipples have turned into hard little points capable of slashing through lace to make themselves known beneath the thin tan fabric of this coat.
The metal music has stopped, but the ovary slayer is still there.
Jesus. Christ. Wow. Are you listening to your own thoughts?
There are a few upholstered leather stools in front of the bar. They’re big, clunky things that would probably go through a wall if thrown at one.
I manage to force myself up onto one without falling off or having my coat open up and displaying a whole lot of skin and bits.
The man hasn’t moved. He hasn’t asked me what I’d like to drink. He’s staring at me the way I was staring at him earlier, sweeping those spicy honey eyes over me openly before sliding them back up to my face.
Up close, I notice a few small lines around his eyes and mouth. He might be older than I thought, but that only increases his hotness and my corresponding goosebumps. Either he covers up his silver fox hair, or he hasn’t gone that grey yet, but I’d peg him as being in his late thirties. Everything about him screams experienced, not old, and he’s far more alluring for it.