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)
Well, Parker’s kiss is the exact opposite of that.
His mouth fits mine like the sweetest dream, and his tongue slips between my lips like a key in a lock. His taste is instantly warm and familiar. Easy and sweet. Electric and safe and hot as fucking hell because damn this boy can kiss.
Before I make a conscious decision to give in to this bad idea, my arms are around his shoulders, threading into his hair at the nape of his neck as I kiss him back with all the enthusiasm of a feral raccoon in a dumpster full of hot wings. And as our tongues thrust and parry and his fingers curl into my hips through my jeans, I realize this is the best kiss of my life.
Better than Tanner.
Better than the awful, but legitimately sexy man I married.
And way, way better than Chuck.
Chuck is decaf. Parker is a triple espresso. Chuck is a galaxy screensaver. Parker is a live feed direct from outer space. Chuck is plain toast. Parker is crème brûlée set ablaze by a shirtless Frenchman.
“Shirt off,” I mumble against his lips. “I would really like to see you with your shirt off.”
“I would really like to see you with everything off,” he rumbles back, “spread open for me on my bed, soaking wet and begging me to fuck you.”
“Woah! Dude!” I pull back again, sucking in a breath as I lift both hands in the universal sign for “stop the crazy.”
“Too much too soon?” he asks, his electric blue eyes locked on my mouth, which is a lot to handle. But not nearly as bad as if he were looking at, say, my rock-hard nipples that are no doubt straining through the fabric of my shirt.
Seriously, I can’t remember the last time my nipples were this hard.
“Yes,” I breathe, though I’m honestly not sure. “You don’t go from kid I used to babysit to filthy bedroom talk in less than a minute.”
“We’ve been kissing for at least five minutes,” he says, nodding toward the bar. “The guy in the leather vest was starting to get annoyed.”
“I’m not annoyed,” Cobb says, making me cry out and flinch in my chair.
My hand flies to my chest, above my slamming heart. “Shit, Cobb, you scared me. I didn’t know you were there.”
“I know,” Cobb says. “You didn’t know anyone was here, and you were starting to get a little too spicy.”
My eyes widen. “Too spicy for The Brass Monkey?”
Cobb tips his head. “Yep.”
“But I’ve seen people dry hump in the corner more than once,” I say, motioning toward the dark area by the emergency exit. “We weren’t humping.”
“Not yet,” Cobb counters, arching a wry brow. “And those people were ugly. No one cares if ugly people hump in public. They care if pretty people do it, especially if they’re making little moaning noises.”
Cheeks hot again, I hiss, “I was not making moaning noises.”
“You were,” Cobb and Parker say at the same time.
Afterward, Parker adds with a grin, “I liked them.”
“Of course, you did, she’s a foxy little piece,” Cobb says, narrowing his eyes at Parker. “She’s also a sweet kid who’s been through hell with men like you. Seriously, friend, you heterosexuals have to pull yourselves together and remember how to treat a lady. Don’t just hook up at a bar. Take her out, plan things, listen when she talks, care about the things she cares about. It’s not rocket science. It’s just a matter of making a basic effort to show a little humanity.”
Parker nods seriously. “I agree, sir. I’ve had a crush on Makena since I was twelve years old. If she agrees to date me, I will treat this woman like a fucking queen.”
“Oh my God, I have to go,” I say, sliding off my chair. I take a step away only to spin back and snag the two remaining Slim Jims from my glass. “But not without my road meat.”
“Does that mean I’m coming, too?” Parker says, tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and hustling after me. “I can be road meat.”
Scowling up at him, I whisper-shout, “Stop it! People are staring.”
“No, they aren’t,” he says. “No one cares. That’s why people come to The Brass Monkey—the lack of caring and the disgustingly awesome drinks. Now, about me being your road meat…”
“You are not road meat,” I say, pushing out the door into the chilly suburban night. “Shit,” I mutter, forgetting we’re way too far out of town for cabs to be readily available.
“At least slip a guy a Slim Jim, then,” he says. “I didn’t get one with my Trash Panda. The bartender said they were out. Probably because he gave them all to the cute blonde he has a crush on.”
Whipping my phone out of my pocket to call a car, I huff, “Cobb is gay. Clearly.”