Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
She nods slowly, the warmth in her eyes making it feel safe to say these kinds of things. And maybe, someday soon, to say what I want to say most.
To tell her that I’m in love with her and I never want to file those divorce papers.
“And what about the other?” she asks, nodding toward the base of the mattress. “Down on the bench. What did you say then?”
A grin bursts across my face. “Nah, I can’t. It’s better in French. And in the heat of the moment.”
Her eyes narrow as she shakes her head. “No fair. I’ll keep studying, but until I have more vocabulary, it isn’t fair to say things I can’t understand.”
I sigh, my grin fading as I confess, “I said some filthy stuff about how much I wanted you to eat your little cat until you screamed my name and drowned me in your juice.” Her eyes widen, and I hurry to add, “I promise, sounds way less crass in French.”
Her lips curve in a wicked grin. “I don’t think it sounds crass. Not even a little bit. I really like the little cat part.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s cute and filthy at the same time. Kind of like you.” She leans in, kissing me, slow and deep, until the afterglow becomes a fresh flame.
She shifts over me, easy and sure, and I groan as her little cat rubs against me, coaxing me back to life. She kisses me like we’ve got all night, like we didn’t just go hard the first round, and I fall even more completely under her spell.
“You sure you’re not sore?” I murmur, but she’s already reaching between us, wrapping her hand around my cock, stroking me into a full erection.
“I’m not. You?” she whispers against my jaw as she lines us up with a sensual roll of her hips.
I answer by gripping her ass and guiding her down onto my cock with one smooth, fluid motion that summons a soft groan from her throat.
This time is slower, less rushed. Languid, but no less consuming. She rocks against me with a rhythm that’s as honest and real as we are. I meet her thrust for thrust, cupping her face, worshiping her mouth with mine because every part of her is the sweetest, the best.
“Look at me, baby,” I say, voice ragged as we chase the edge together. “I want to see you when you come, chère.”
She gives me what I ask for without hesitation, her eyes wide, lips parted, one hand braced on my chest as she shatters for me with a beauty that’s instantly imprinted deep in my brain.
I follow her with a choked cry, my hands squeezing her ass, holding tight as I lose myself inside her again.
Afterward, we take the world’s fastest, most exhausted post-sex shower, and sag into bed, finding each other beneath the covers again as we welcome the pull of sleep.
Tomorrow, that video Schwartz’s editing will go live. Tomorrow, we’ll officially reveal our marriage to the world, and the world will judge it however the hell they want.
But none of that can touch this.
This is hers, mine, ours.
This is the beginning of something so real it’s got forever written all over it.
I’m dead certain of that.
Until suddenly—just two weeks later—I’m not.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
ELLY
“Chuck is ghosting me. Hard.” Makena’s lips push into a pout as she burrows deeper into the wraparound couch in the living room. “Why do I always get ghosted, Elly? I’m not that scary, am I?”
We’re sitting by the “gaming system” TV Grammercy hardly ever uses, staying cozy while Mimi sleeps and Grammercy’s in Kansas City for the Voodoo’s first away game. It’s a rainy Friday in October, the first chilly NOLA night of the year, and Makena and I are honoring it with hot toddies.
The apple cider, bourbon, spice, and vanilla liquor concoction she calls “Sweater Weather” is delicious.
Hearing Chuck’s name on her lips again is much less so…
I pause mid-sip and arch a brow. “How can he be ghosting you? You broke up with him.” I hunch my shoulders closer to my ears as I beg, “Please, don’t tell me you’re back together, Mack. I’ve already said way too many unpleasant things about Chuck to feel comfortable having drinks with him again. True things, but also…unpleasant.”
Makena rolls her blue eyes. “God, no. I finally learned my lesson with that one, believe me. He’s the worst.”
“Oh, thank God. He really is.” I relax back into the sinfully comfy couch. I’ve never had a couch like this, one that cradles you like a spongy cloud. Mimi calls it the “stuffed animal” couch because it’s so big and cuddly and she likes to do her reading homework here after school.
“I know,” Makena continues. “But he still has my entire vintage record collection. I was keeping it at his place because we liked to listen to Van Morrison and Joni Mitchell on the weekends. I’ve texted him ten times suggesting places we could meet up to do a handoff, but he refuses to respond. I even told him he could just leave them out on his porch one Sunday morning, and I would bike over to get them on my day off, but…nothing.”