Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Her hands slide up my chest, exploring, fingers tracing the lines of muscle like she’s mapping me out, nails trailing along my abs.
“Good,” she whispers into the dark. “Because I can’t afford a relationship with anyone at work. It would cost me my job.”
The little liar is fibbing.
I’ve already determined that one of Juliette’s tells is avoiding eye contact, and that’s what she’s doing now.
“So, we’re just going to have fun?” My brows go up, daring her to agree with me.
Juliette falters. Gives me a tentative nod. “Just fun.”
My mouth curves. “Perfect.”
I lean down and kiss her like I don’t already know I’m playing a longer game. One I intend to win.
Her fingers hook into the waistband of my pants and tug me closer, the motion so bold it almost makes me smile against her mouth as she shoves my pants down my hips.
Juliette’s eyes drop to the front of my boxers, and she doesn’t try to hide it when she locks on my straining dick as I pull her joggers over her hips. Over her knees, down her legs.
Her skin is illuminated in silver and shadow, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more fucking distracting in the center of my bed in my entire goddamn life.
Shiny satin hair spills across my pillow. Juliette’s smooth skin and parted legs. And I ache to see what’s beneath that tiny strip of lace in the sweet center.
What her tits look like without a bra.
My hands drag up her legs, spreading her wider as I settle between her thighs, lowering myself over her, mouth already greedy.
Taste her skin.
Fuck her.
THIRTEEN
JULIETTE
Aaron Bishop is as big of a liar as I am.
And if he keeps looking down at me like this, I’m going to climax before his dick is even inside me.
It’s big.
Impossible not to notice the thick bulge in his boxers as he leans over me, this time with no hesitation. His hands slide to my back, fingers finding the clasp of my bra with surprising ease. A quiet pop. One smooth motion. He doesn’t rush it. He draws the straps down my arms slowly, deliberately, like he wants to see every second of it—like he wants to watch me react.
Of course, I let him.
My bra hits the floor.
His gaze drags over me, unhurried. One hand settles at my hip, thumb brushing idle circles against my skin before his fingertips skim higher, barely grazing the underside of my breast.
My back arches automatically into his hand, and I hate how easily he’s undoing me.
“So pretty,” he tells me a second time, cupping one of them. “I can’t wait to bury my face in these.”
I cover my face with one hand. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” He leans down and flicks his tongue over my nipple. Sucks. “I’m already so hard, these are making it worse.”
My face is on fire.
Body a blazing inferno.
Every touch feels amplified. Charged. His mouth takes its sweet, delicious time, and I forget how to breathe, my lungs fighting for air.
Then—
“What would your brother say,” he asks casually, voice rough against my skin, “if he saw you naked in my bed?”
I scowl, even as a laugh slips out. “Why would you bring him into the conversation? Talk about a buzz kill.”
His mouth curves against my skin like he enjoys the reaction almost as much as he enjoys touching me. He shifts his weight, one hand sliding to cup my other breast, thumb brushing slowly, deliberately, as if he’s testing how sensitive I’ve become.
Which is unfair.
Because I’ve become very sensitive.
I shiver when his palm tightens and his mouth closes around me, warm and slow, and I tug lightly at his hair without meaning to. He makes a low sound at that—pleased—and the vibration shoots straight through me.
“Feels naughty keeping so many secrets, doesn’t it?” he murmurs against my skin.
The words should make me pause.
Instead, they make my stomach flip.
I nod, breath hitching. “What I do is none of his business.”
Aaron hums low in approval, a sound that vibrates straight through me. “Goddamn right it’s not.”
His mouth drifts lower, slower now, like he’s savoring me. He is in no rush. Every inch he covers feels intentional, worshipful almost, and I have to swallow back the little sounds threatening to escape.
My hands slide down his shoulders, over the hard, sculpted line of his back. He’s solid beneath my palms—heat and muscle and tension coiled tight. A spring waiting to snap. I can feel how much he wants me in the way he holds himself, in the careful restraint threaded through every touch.
I arch instinctively when his lips find the sensitive spot below my collarbone. He lingers there, teeth grazing lightly—enough that my breath stutters—before soothing the sting with a slow, open-mouthed kiss.
“Juliette?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re on birth control, yeah?” he asks so matter-of-factly that the directness of the question sobers me.