Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
“You have no idea how many times I’ve dreaaaammmeedddd of listening to him narrate a Sloan Mathers’ novel,” spews the sexy stranger.
“You’re right. I don’t.” Smiling effortlessly continues. “But I’m willing to find out.”
“Tempting.”
“I like that you’re tempted.”
“I like that there’s something to be tempted by.”
Surprise over her retort momentarily renders me speechless.
“Back to my free-agent status question…” Her fit frame noticeably sways a bit closer. “You’re…what…exactly?”
Reluctance to respond is non-existent. “Unrestricted.”
“Perfect.”
“You still are.”
She only barely manages to bat away her giggle before stating, “I now pronounce us a fake couple.”
Nodding in appreciation of her mirthful nature is attached to an equally playful, “Salud.”
“You speak Italian?”
“You understand Italian?”
“I understand many languages.”
“And I speak many languages.” Another innocent shrug escapes. “Job requirement.”
“Same.”
Huh.
Wonder what my new fake girlfriend does for a living.
Oh!
And her name.
Still haven’t gotten that yet.
Interestingly enough this situation is beginning to mirror that whole wake up drunk and married to a stranger in Vegas thing.
Although, I’m not drunk – or at least I don’t think I am.
And we’re not married – just a couple for the sake of a good laugh, I guess.
And we’re definitely not in Vegas – which is fine by me since I prefer South Haven Island anyway.
The female in front of me flicks a strand of her long, dark brown hair away from her face and smoothly informs, “You may kiss your fake BAE.”
Befuddlement and levity yet again amalgamate in my expression. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
“Kiss you?”
“Kiss me.”
“As in…kiss you?”
“Yeah,” she relocates the hand on her hip to the edge of my shirt where it lightly tugs me forward, “as in put your face on my face kiss me.”
“You’re joking?”
“No.”
“You’re serious?”
“That’s the opposite of joking last I checked.”
Bewilderment runs rampant throughout my complexion and voice alike, “Actually serious?”
“Next Gen not getting a season eight serious.”
The lowering of my jaw occurs of its own volition.
“Look, the Data level truth is that my ‘doesn’t accept no for an answer unless I’m dating someone else’ ex-boyfriend is about one role credit scene away from us right now, so I’m gonna need you to kiss me to full thrusters that point home.”
Okay.
Not what I was expecting.
However, if I’ve learned anything in my life as the right-hand man to one of the richest men in the world, it’s that the best things rarely are.
It’s how Wes got Bryn.
Spock got Uhura.
Grayson got Gordon.
Perhaps this is how I get her.
My one and only.
And she feels like she’s meant to be my one and only.
Which is something I’ve never felt before.
Which is also probably why my soul is screaming it’s more than ready to take “fake it ‘til you make it” up to the penthouse level.
“Okay,” airily along with awkwardly slips past my lips, “uh…you want a quickie?”
“Maybe later in a bathroom,” she good naturedly giggles. “I haven’t done that shit since that biker back in Camelot.”
All my flabber instantly becomes gasted.
Did she really just fucking say that?!
Out loud?!
To me?!
“Kiss me, Imzadi,” she commands in a slightly more seductive tone. “Kiss me like I’m Troi and you’re Riker and we both would rather die a thousand deaths than live a minute longer without the other.”
Haste would need a neck brace over the speed at which my mouth descends hers.
From the first touch, possessiveness possesses my entire system.
Pushes me to run both sets of fingers up the nape of her neck.
Bury them in her thick locks.
Roughly pull her into me as my lips spread hers in a demand to prove the point she requested.
To guarantee that it’s not simply fulfilled but done to the point of no contest.
Granting my tongue permission to taste the sweetness lingering on hers unleashes a beast I didn’t even realize existed.
Banished is the poster boy of perfection I have to be in every boardroom, every conference call, every charity convention and in his place reins something much more primitive.
Almost feral.
Completely foreign.
Shy swirls swiftly shift into sharp, savage lashes determined to scribble my name across her heart.
Spirit.
Soul.
Soft whimpers slipping loose are attached to her manicured nails sliding underneath the edge of my t-shirt to latch onto my lower abs for support.
Stability.
Sanity.
Fuck.
Both?
It feels like both.
I need it to be both.
Uncertainty that I want her to have either is what pushes me to press my tongue harder.
Faster.
Snatch away any and all opportunities to have thoughts.
Or ideas.
Or air.
Or anything that isn’t fucking me.
All of a sudden, a loud throat clearing hits our ears; however, we don’t immediately separate.
We continue to hang on for dear life, chests ceaselessly heaving, desperate to soothe the internal burning, foreheads lightly resting against one another, relying undeniably on each other for strength.
I just had the best kiss of my entire life.
And I don’t even know her name.
The second throat clearing successfully sends our stares in tandem to the larger built, ivory skinned male hanging out a little too close for fucking comfort.