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)
“I’m not broken, if that’s what you’re thinking. And this isn’t a rebound,” he informs me, with dignity.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you were hurt.”
His gaze drops to where my hand rests on him. Then back to my face.
“You’re very quick to take my side,” he says, frowning.
“Should I not?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he lifts his hand and slowly wraps his fingers around mine, where it rests on his arm, and holds it, fingers gently stroking mine.
“You don’t even know the whole story,” he says so calmly I have to lean in closer to hear the words.
“Does it matter?” I whisper.
“It might.”
“Why? Were you cruel?” I press quietly.
“No.”
“Were you careless?”
He shifts in his seat. “No.”
“Then I’m comfortable being on your side because you didn’t deserve the lies.”
His thumb moves slightly against my knuckles.
“Nope,” he agrees. “But we don’t have to keep unpacking my baggage on our date night.”
Date night.
I roll the words around in my head, letting them settle warmly in the pit of my stomach. Shove whatever tiny doubts I had to the back of my mind, intent on comforting him.
And then—
He stands.
No warning. No dramatic pause.
One second, I’m perched on a stool. The next, his hands are on my waist, and I’m airborne.
“Aaron!” I squeak.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me on the counter with a solid thump. Not rough. But not gentle.
Confident—like a caveman.
He nudges my knees apart and steps between my thighs.
“Oh my god.” I breathe. “Was all that necessary?”
“Very.”
His gaze drops to the front of my shirt.
“Did you wear this on purpose?” he asks quietly, nimble fingers sliding the first button open.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t look at my face. Not yet. His eyes stay trained on his hands as they work down the line of my buttons, one, then another.
Then another…
The sound of crisp material is the only noise in his quiet kitchen, cool air brushing my skin as the shirt parts, exposing the lacey bra beneath as his fingers slide open the fabric, skimming the warm line of my waist.
The rough pads of his fingers touch my stomach… trace upward… following the curve of my ribs until they brush the edge of my bra.
Delicate lace meets his hungry gaze.
“Juliette, look at me,” he murmurs.
I do.
I am.
He pushes the shirt off my shoulders slowly so it slides down my arms, pooling at my elbows. I shiver, the air cool against my bare flesh, though my body is warm where Aaron presses between my thighs.
His large palm rises again, cupping the side of my breast through the lace. Thumb dragging lazily across the lace, the whisper of pressure deliberate and unhurried. The thin material offers no protection; it only heightens every sensation.
A slow circle.
A soft glide.
Aaron pinches the tip of it lightly between two fingers, pleasure enough to make my back arch before I can stop myself.
His gaze finds my face, watching my every reaction.
“You like that?” he asks calmly.
“Yes.”
He pulls me in, leans down, and brushes his lips over the curve of my collarbone before trailing lower. His mouth roams, grazing the top swell of my breasts, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over my flesh while his fingers skim lightly under the edge of the bra.
Then, with unhurried precision, he draws the thin straps down over my shoulders, inch by inch, until they fall slack at my sides. The bra loosens, no longer holding its place.
More kisses on my newly bared skin as he pulls back to look at me—like he’s savoring the reveal before taking the final step to remove it completely.
His gaze lingers on my breasts before his hands move again.
One slides around my back, fingers finding the clasp with practiced ease. He doesn’t break eye contact as he works it loose—a quiet snap, and it falls from my body.
He doesn’t rush to touch me.
It’s as if he’s deciding where to put his hands first. The intensity of his dark eyes makes heat crawl up my neck.
It’s torture.
“I haven’t been able to properly look at you before.”
No. He hasn’t.
We’ve been in the dark the two times we’ve been intimate.
“These are beautiful,” he finally says, voice deep and raspy. Rough with arousal. Anticipation coils in my stomach, every nerve waiting for the moment he stops looking and finally starts touching me.
A kiss below my jaw.
Another at the slope where my neck meets my shoulder…
When his mouth moves, it’s down the curve of my neck, across my collarbone, pressing above my breasts without quite touching. I can feel the restraint in him—feel the way he’s choosing not to rush.
The space between contact and expectation stretches unbearably thin.
He lets it be.
He lets me tremble.
He wants me wanting.
And god, do I want him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against my throat, tongue wetting my skin.
“Obviously,” I complain. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
A soft exhale of amusement ghosts over my skin.