Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
And I acted the exact same way toward him.
We both acted like...
Oh my God, both of us did, right? I wasn’t imagining it, was I?
I clutch my chest. Holy My Heart’s Gonna Burst Out of my Chest, Batman. I’m having trouble breathing. I take a deep, steadying breath. That conversation threw me for a loop. It was just so effing... affectionate. And comfortable. And sweet. (Well, except when he asked what crawled up my ass—that wasn’t so sweet.) There was none of our usual cat-and-mouse thing going on—it felt like the cat had already caught its coveted mouse, long ago, and was now pinning it down and licking it from nose to tail.
I stash my phone in my purse—the Gucci bag Josh bought me during our Oksana-inspired shopping spree—and stare at the rain out the taxicab window. Holy hell, Josh’s generosity knows no bounds. He’s already done so much for me, and now he’s gonna help me get my little company off the ground, too? I thought I’d be at least forty before I even attempted to make that particular dream come true.
The windshield wipers are going back and forth at full speed, lulling me into a kind of trance.
I don’t care what Josh says—we’re definitely not even when it comes to the two of us bestowing gifts and favors on each other. I joined our Ocean’s Eleven crew to protect Sarah and possibly myself, too—not to mention to get a free trip to Las Vegas with my best friend. Yes, everything wound up blowing up and becoming way, way bigger than any of us had ever imagined, but still... Josh keeps doing stuff for me, personally, and I most definitely didn’t save the world for him specifically. There’s no way around it: all I’ve done is take, take, take from Josh, letting him give, give, give to me ’til he’s blue in his ridiculously gorgeous face. And I’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve his generosity or express my gratitude. In fact, I’m getting perilously close to becoming a total user-abuser, if I’m not already there. But what gift can I possibly give to Josh that would come even close to everything he’s already given to me?
My heart is throbbing in my ears. My chest is tight.
I already know the answer, of course. It’s not a big mystery: his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies served up on a silver platter.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to give him. Right down the line.
Of course, giving Josh complete sexual satisfaction, no matter what form that comes in, isn’t some sort of noble or charitable pursuit on my part—ha! It will be my sublime pleasure to give Josh exactly what he desires in the bedroom, a gift to myself as much as him. Hell yeah, it will.
And it’s not all the gifts and money Josh has given me that’s making me feel this way, either. Nate used to shower me with gifts, too (though on a much smaller scale), and I never once physically ached for him the way I’m aching for Josh right now. I never once daydreamed about feeling Nate pushing himself deep inside me, or closed my eyes and imagined his warm tongue on my clit, or fantasized about waking up in Nate’s arms and wordlessly taking his morning wood into my mouth.
I breathe deeply, arousal suddenly seeping into my panties.
I never once felt a near-desperate urge to fuck Nate any which way he likes it, literally, any which way, no matter how dirty or naughty it might be, or felt the urge to make his desires my own, or fantasized about sitting on his face or riding his cock ’til I’m screaming his name. And I certainly never once imagined Nate sitting at the dinner table with my family on Thanksgiving, or on the couch with my brothers, watching the Seahawks and eating my mom’s famous chili.
I gasp and jerk forward in my seat, clutching my throat like I’m choking on a chicken bone. Oh my fucking shit. What am I thinking? I want to take Josh home to meet my family? I haven’t taken anyone home since Garrett.
I stare at the rain battering the window of the taxicab, still clutching my throat, trying desperately to think of some logical reason why I’m feeling like a tortured, lovesick puppy that doesn’t involve falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor (who, in case I missed it, just told me in not-so-secret code he’s not at all interested in a long-term commitment). But I can’t come up with a damned thing.
I’m falling for the world’s most eligible bachelor.
Oh God.
No. I need to stop feeling this way right now and get a handle on my emotions. I press both of my palms on my cheeks, willing myself to stop feeling this all-consuming ache. Infatuation is fine. Sexual attraction is fine. We’ll-see-where-this-goes is perfectly fine. Really liking someone a whole lot is perfectly fine. But risking inevitable, shattering heartbreak is emphatically not.