Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I let the words trail off because if I keep talking, I might reveal that her betrayal disillusioned me as much as my father’s. And tonight is not for regret or resentment or recriminations.
Tonight is for fucking. No-strings, through-the-mattress fucking.
Bang and bounce, Bellamy. Bang and bounce.
“Can I say something?” she asks, shooting me a cautious look.
“Sure.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms over my chest. “Go for it.”
“I know your father did some shitty things, and it hurt your whole family, especially your mom, but time is one of life’s greatest gifts, and it’s not always guaranteed. I only had eleven years with my parents.”
Her throat works with a swallow, and she lowers her gaze to the counter’s shiny surface. “I always ask folks what they’d save in a fire, but I know exactly what I would have saved in ours.”
She looks up, a depthless sadness in her beautiful eyes.
“Them. I’d have saved them. I’d give anything to have a little more time with my parents, Monk. I don’t want years to go by, or, God forbid, time with your dad to be cut short, and you regret not truly trying to repair your relationship with him if that’s possible.”
I stiffen, as much because of my father’s words echoing in my ears as the ones she’s saying to me now.
You don’t forgive easily when you love.
“He didn’t love your mom the way she deserved,” Verity goes on, “but it sounds like he loves you a lot. You aren’t betraying her or condoning what he did if you find a way to have a relationship with him.”
“I know that,” I say, my brows lowering into a frown.
“And forgiveness isn’t always for the person who wronged us. I would argue it’s more for you. What you’re holding on to could be holding you back. Your relationship with him doesn’t have to be perfect, but it can keep getting better.”
I let her words sink in and manage a slit of a smile. “You on some Yoda sage shit, huh?”
The comment does what I hoped it would, lightening the atmosphere in the kitchen and prompting her to offer a sly smile of her own.
“Lots of therapy.” She rests her chin in her hand and widens her eyes innocently. “But working in Hollywood, I do have a ton of experience with perfectionists.”
“I am not a perfectionist.”
“Are you kidding? The only person I’ve met who is more of a perfectionist than you is Canon Holt, and y’all are kinda neck and neck.”
“I’mma need you to take that back.”
I cross around to her side and stand between her knees, spreading her legs slightly. Her breath catches and she leans back, elbows propped on the counter behind her. The deep brown bourbon swirled in her dark eyes is intoxicating. I get drunk just looking at her.
“Make me, Monk.”
I grab her chin and tilt her face up to capture her lips in a kiss. It’s supposed to be light and quick, but as soon as our mouths meld, that same fire that always seems barely banked, explodes. The kiss extends, turning desperate and ravenous. She sucks my tongue and I nip at her lips. Gripping my neck, she brings me closer, and the feel of her unravels a little more of my resolve. I shove her dress up and grip her thigh with one hand and her ass with the other.
“Monk,” she gasps, spreading her legs wider, pressing her breasts into my chest.
“I got you, baby.” I trace up her inner thigh to the apex, stroking and pinching her through her damp underwear. “That’s good?”
I can’t believe how deceptively steady my hands and my words are when it feels like my insides are collapsing. Like every wall I’ve raised to keep this woman out is falling at the first touch.
“So good.” She rolls her hips, needy whimpers slipping past her lips and into my mouth. “Touch me, Monk.”
“I am touching you.” I grin into the kiss and pass my index finger over the silk again. “See?”
“Fuck you,” she growls, and reaches between us to pull her panties back so I’m touching her there. Flesh on flesh with nothing separating us. She’s hot and slick and my mouth waters at the memory of her taste. On my deathbed, I’ll manage one last hard-on thinking of how wet and sweet she was for me.
I lift her onto the counter and guide the dress over her head in one frantic move, leaving her in nothing but pink lace.
“I should fuck you right here in my kitchen,” I groan at the curve of her throat.
“What’s stopping you?”
She undoes the front clasp of her bra. Her breasts spill free, bounce a little, the brown nipples piqued and velvety. I lower my head, ready to take my fill, when the oven timer goes off, blaring and shattering the moment.