Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
I’m gaping. I don’t know what to say. He’s fidgeting with the edge of his napkin and giving me a pained smile as if he wants to make a joke out of this, laugh it off, but can’t summon the energy. Why should he? I get that hookups aren’t going to be the most meaningful encounters. But those women were using him. Blatantly.
“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “I didn’t tell you those stories to get you to feel sorry for me. They’re supposed to be funny.”
I swallow hard. “Do you find them funny?”
He winces, lifting one, broad shoulder. “When I told the guys, yeah. We laughed our asses off. But when you look at me with those big, pained eyes? It feels . . . shitty.”
With a breath, I shake myself out of it and rest my arms on the table. “You’re not allowed to feel shitty.”
“I’m not, huh?” The easy expression is back, his stiffness fading.
“I forbid it. They are the ones who should feel shitty. I want to hunt them down and slap some sense into them.”
“You’re kind of scary when you’re pissed.” His gaze slides over me in a slow stroke. “Scary hot.”
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing.”
“Oh, yeah, there is.” His expression is sin and promise. “Wonder Woman is scary hot. She can kick your ass, tie you up, and make you spill the truth. You know, beg for it.”
He says it with such zeal, my breasts grow heavy with the image of him tied to a chair, those firm muscles of his straining against the ropes. I suck in a breath, let it out nice and slow. “You’re into begging?”
“I’m into hot women who know their minds.” He gives me a cheeky grin. “And Wonder Woman. I’m definitely into her.”
“I used to have this fantasy that Spider-Man wrapped me in his web and had his way with me,” I confess in a stage whisper.
Finn looks delighted, which makes me feel better. I didn’t like seeing the happy light in his eyes dim or that I’d made him feel shitty. We’re probably flirting too much for supposed friends, but if feels light, fun. I am the first to admit I can be too serious.
“Saucy, Chess.” He leans close so we’re facing each other over the table. “So is it just the dates that suck? Or the sex, too?”
The fact that he has to ask puts us on totally separate planes. I don’t have sex with crappy dates. He clearly does. I give a little laugh and shake my head. “It’s been so long since I’ve had good sex, I swear I heard the mournful sound of ‘Taps’ coming from the vicinity of my vagina last night.”
He chokes on his beer, spewing a fine mist over the table. Coughing on the remnants, he wipes his mouth and then the mess, before glaring. “I can’t believe you said that to me.”
I sip my own beer, hiding a smile. “Did my use of vagina offend you?”
“Yes,” he deadpans, then rolls his eyes. “I’m a guy. Now I want to fix the problem.”
The heat in his eyes has me squirming in my seat. Not that I show it. “We’re friends. You can’t fix it.”
Finn’s expression could only be described as a leer. “Oh, I could fix it, all right.”
I grin wide, pretend that my heart isn’t beating harder, that my nipples aren’t perking up with interest. “But you won’t because that would ruin this fragile and new friendship.”
He snorts, then takes a long drink of his beer. “Then don’t tempt me.”
Is that what I’m doing? Maybe I am. Maybe I need my head examined. Any time I get within sight of him everything grows warm and slow, swollen and tender. Except my heart and my breath, those quicken with impatience and greed. How would it be to fuck him? Would it be as combustible as my body believes? Would he wreck me for all others?
For one heady moment, I entertain the thought of giving in, of telling him, Fix me. Until it hurts to walk. But what if sleeping with him falls flat in the face of expectation?
And there is the unavoidable fact that he has plainly stated he doesn’t want to hook up with me. Despite his easy flirting, I know he was being honest. And, really, I don’t want a hookup either. So, I’ll treat him just as I treat James.
Under the table, I nudge his knee with mine. “Come on. You don’t talk about sex with your friends?”
He gives me the stink eye, but he’s clearly fighting a smile, too. “In general, guys never admit that their dicks are singing sad songs. Kind of messes with the rep.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“Seriously, though,” he says. “I’m having a hard time believing you don’t have guys lined up waiting for a chance with you.”