Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
It’s bingo night tonight. Be home around nine.
I look to the clock, noting it’s a little after seven, and peek in on what Mom made for dinner. I smirk, shaking my head, and pick up our glasses.
I take the steps two at a time. “I got us something that should warm us up quick!”
“In here!”
Her voice leads me into the bathroom, and I’m stepping in just as the curtain to the shower is closing, nothing but her fingers in sight.
“Uh, this is divine!” Her hair tie is thrown over the top, and I watch as it lands by my feet—right next to the hoodie and socks she was wearing. I note there is no other item of clothing there with them. No panties. No bra.
She was full commando today.
My eyes fall to the bulge in my jeans, and I give him a mental apology as my muscles clench. I try to rid myself of the thoughts running through my mind, but then she pulls the curtain back a little, part of her coming into view, hair soaked and hanging over her naked shoulder.
“Oh, what’s that?” She stares at the glasses in my hand.
“Some shit my dad makes me and the guys sometimes. No idea what it’s called, but it’s damn good.”
She tips her head, and my gaze follows the long piece of golden hair that slides against her arm, sticking to her in ways I want to.
I’d like to take her hair and—
“Bring mine to me?” she asks, but it’s the crack in her tone that has my eyes snapping to hers, my breathing getting a little harder.
Probably because I’m holding my breath.
I shuffle closer, handing hers over, and she holds her hand over mine a moment before pulling it away.
“Cheers.” She holds it up; we clink glasses and, at the same time, tip our glasses back.
I finish mine in one go, and she only takes a second swallow, blowing out a long breath as she chuckles. She passes it back and then the curtain is hiding her from me again. “That is good.”
“Guess what my mom made for dinner.”
The curtain yanks back again, this time soapy bubbles clinging to her, and I have to swallow my groan.
She’s killing me and she has no fucking idea.
“Don’t play with me, Lancaster.”
I tug my hoodie over my head, my shirt next, and the rest follows, leaving me in my briefs. Her eyes burn a path down my chest, but before they can travel any lower, I spin on my feet. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Cox.”
Lie.
I would very much like to play with her. Naked.
But that’s a whole other issue in itself, isn’t it, you big fucking fake?
Cameron
I call on my best spying skills and focus on the sound of his footsteps. Only when I can’t hear the slightest trace of him do I finally feel I can breathe, my shoulders falling against the tile walls.
Holy shit, he kissed me when no one was watching.
When no one was there to see.
When it wasn’t for the benefit of someone else.
Does that mean he feels this new pull between us?
I thought I was imagining it, that our versions of Mr. Hyde—the flirty, sexual seeker version—were just becoming better acquainted with each other while the sane, more conscious parts of our selves knew the score.
I’m starting to think my scoreboard is glitching and I’ve missed a touchdown or two because the numbers aren’t matching up.
Does this mean more than I realize or less than I want it to?
What the actual hell do I want it to?
I know what’s going on, and it’s somehow equally as intriguing as it is terrifying. It’s like the musical cue in a major motion picture has started playing, and all you have to do is keep your eyes glued to the screen to see what big moment happens next.
Do we keep driving down the field or spike the ball and end the play?
I don’t know the answer, but what I do know is this is Brady we’re talking about.
If there’s anyone I can trust blindly, it’s him.
That thought washes the unease down the drain with what’s left of the suds, and I climb out, smiling when I find a fresh T-shirt and pair of fluffy, green Hulk socks. I tug them on and towel-dry my hair as best I can, comb it out, and head down the stairs.
Brady’s just getting the fire lit, two plates on the coffee table that he scooted closer to the fireplace.
He looks up, his mouth open as if he was about to say something but he seems to forget what it was, and then the front door is opening.
“Oh, hello, my sweet babies!” Tisha coos, her hands coming together in front of her like a prayer.
Brady chuckles, raising a brow at his dad, who winks in return.