Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
He laughed. “You’re asking? You never have to ask.”
“It’s polite,” I almost simpered. “So can I?”
He threw his arm across his eyes. “You’re gonna torture me, I can tell.”
And oh, I wanted to.
He submitted to my touch, my exploration, and that felt sexy as hell. I brushed the silken head, the satin steel of him against my palm. I climbed to straddle his legs, and he groaned my name, the muscle of his thigh contracting as I pressed my hand there.
His eyes turned to coal as I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and bent to swipe my tongue there. “Yeah.” The word was just a breath, and next, a low growl. “Lick it, darlin’. Make it nice and wet.”
Oh, the effect his words had on me.
“Like this?” I whispered, dragging my tongue along his length. From base to tip and back again. Swirling the tip.
“That’s good. So good.” He swept my hair from my face—a tender gesture—but I knew it was so he could watch as he said, “Put it in your mouth.”
“You should do audio porn,” I whispered, glancing up the length of his body. A body that shook with laughter. And when he stopped, he moved his hand to my head, pressing it down.
That one tiny act of dominance, and I was done.
With my mouth stretched around him, he watched me work. And the noise he made as I took him deep could’ve blown a house down.
“You’re so good,” he rasped. He gave a thirsty swallow, his head tilted back, exposing the strong line of his throat. The tremor in his Adam’s apple.
I felt like a goddess. His taut breaths and his stuttered praise were my creation. Mine alone. I made his body shudder and his eyes turn molten.
“Yeah, like that. Just like that, darlin’.” Desperate then, his jaw taut and his words running together. “Don’t you make me come, Ryan. Don’t you dare make me come.”
It felt like a challenge. A gauntlet thrown. I was going to give my white knight the ride of his life. Drive him to the edge of his sanity, to the point he was unable to do anything but . . .
Let go.
Give in.
Give it to me.
And those memories are why I’m hiding out in my rooms like a troll under a bridge.
Because I’m not my mother. I can resist a man.
Because I will never be her, and I’ll always put my child’s needs first.
I’m just down here, cooling things. My blood mostly. Lines will not blur. Hearts will not get hurt.
I tell myself this is just a temporary state. Pregnancy hormones. And they are a blast.
As in, if I don’t keep them in check, they’re likely to blow up in my face.
Sixteen weeks.
Matt: Do you know Matt Junior is the size of a tomato this week?
I can’t help but smile at Matt’s first text of the day. It’s hard to believe a man can be this sweet. And hotter than the devil, when he invades my dreams.
Yeah, that’s still happening, though I’m not sure if it’s truly hormones that make me feel this way or if it’s just him. Dark haired and funny, caring and kind could be just my thing.
Not that it matters.
Me: Beefsteak or plum tomato?
Matt: A lemon-sized tomato.
Me: What I’m hearing is baby Ryan is the size of a lemon. Good to know!
Matt: It’s a bit vague, don’t you think?
Me: What is?
Matt: Is he the size of a lemon from Valencia or one we get at the greengrocer? There’s quite a variance, size-wise.
Me: . . .
Matt: Calm yourself. I know you live for my scintillating conversation.
More than he knows.
Matt: Anyway, all that to lead up to the fact that I know you already know how big he is because you keep unfolding the corner of the pages of my pregnancy bible.
The pregnancy bible is one of a number of parenting books that have appeared in the house over the past couple of weeks, but the pregnancy bible, as he calls it, is kept on his nightstand. It’s super stalkery, I know, but I look at it every day after he’s left for work. Though I’m careful to replace it each day exactly as I found it. Or so I thought.
I guess there’s just something heartening in reading the pages Matt has read the night before. The facts he learned before dropping off to sleep, maybe to dream about them. The cute facts, not the horrifying ones. The stuff of dreams, not the stuff of nightmares.
Anyhoo, my stalking gig makes me feel connected to Matt in a way that negates my fear that he’ll discover what that connection costs me.
Me: Not me.
Matt: So that wasn’t one of your many many hair ties I found on my bed?
Damn. I roam around his big, beautiful house every day while he’s out working, discovering little things about him without him knowing. I’ve learned he’s a closet romantic (not such a stretch of the imagination) thanks to the romance titles I found slotted among the business, philosophy, and history books on his shelves. I don’t believe for one minute they all belong to Letty.