Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
After a few last kisses to her damp thighs, I tugged her skirt back in place and stood, pulling her around into my arms. “You did so well. Such a good girl,” I praised against her ear, stroking up and down her back. “Thank you for your orgasms. Such a precious gift. And all mine.”
“Yes. All yours,” she breathed, leaning completely into me.
An animalistic pride surged through my veins, pulling up the corners of my mouth as I guided her to a barstool and lifted her onto the seat. “Sit while I make us dinner.”
I pressed a kiss to her temple and returned to the stove across from her, reigniting the flame under the pots.
She rested her chin in her palm and studied me through eyes softened by exhaustion, the earlier frenzy gone, leaving only quiet warmth behind. I let her look her fill, savoring the weight of her gaze as it followed my every movement, certain a thousand questions or comments were gathering in that beautiful mind of hers.
Knowing she’d spill her thoughts eventually, I savored the soft jazz still playing through the speakers and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“My dad wants to announce our engagement at the gala this weekend.” Her sullen tone made her thoughts on the idea clear.
“Announce? How so?”
“Maybe not actually announce.” She sat up, her eyes wide. “God, I hope he doesn’t want to make a formal announcement in front of everyone. I’m thinking—hoping—that he means more like just letting people know in general that we’re engaged.”
I laughed at the horrified look on her face, though inside, warmth surged through me, urging me to stand taller with pride. I imagined holding her in my arms on a stage, her father announcing over the microphone that we were getting married, every gaze heavy with envy as they realized that she was mine, completely. “Either way, I’m sure it will be fine.”
A soft snort escaped her, and she eased her chin back onto her hand, eyes lingering on me with quiet amusement. “You should probably talk to my father. He was less than thrilled that you asked me to marry you without ever saying anything to him.”
“How very modern of him,” I deadpanned.
“Trust me, I said the same thing. But I explained your lack of sharing due to my request that you wait until I talked to him.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ll see him at the gala.”
“Absolutely not,” she objected, brows pulling low. “There will already be so much going on, including his announcement plans. The last thing we need is an uncomfortable conversation in front of a crowd.”
“Who says it will be uncomfortable? Your father likes me.”
“I’m aware,” she grumbled. “But it would be uncomfortable for me. The event is stressful enough without any added important conversations.”
“Fine,” I conceded. “I’ll invite him to lunch before then.”
“Thank you.” She sighed and relaxed back against the counter, her eyes returning to me as I moved around the kitchen.
Her head tilted as I pulled out the tray of chicken nuggets, lips pursed when I spooned spaghetti sauce across the top of each. “What are you making?”
“Chicken Parmesan.”
“Uhhh…that is not chicken parmesan.”
I laughed, finding her scrunched features adorable.
Adorable? Since when did I find anything adorable? Let alone a woman?
Shaking off the thought, I explained. “My mom used to make this for me all the time. She said that just because she wasn’t a good cook didn’t mean we couldn’t have nice meals.”
Aspen laughed, and that damn word—adorable—reappeared. “I like the way she thought.”
“Me too. It didn’t matter that we had a housekeeper who made our meals; she insisted on cooking every once in a while. My father and I ate them up, no matter how terrible they might have been.” I sprinkled cheese over the sauce and laughed, recalling a specific memory. “One time, she said she wanted something fresh. Since she knew how to cook spaghetti, she tried to adapt it into a lemon-parmesan pasta. It…was not good.”
“Oh, no!”
“She paired it with a salad, and while she ate her salad first, we ate our pasta. It tasted like she made the noodles out of lemons. When I pulled a face at how bitter it was, my dad kicked me under the table and gave me a look that said I’d better eat it. So, we did. And when my mom asked how it was, we smiled. It wasn’t until she took a bite of her own that we could finally admit how bad it was. She spat hers out and asked us how the hell we could eat something so gross.”
“Oh, my god. That is hilarious,” Aspen exclaimed. “She was lucky to have two men who loved her so much.”
My smile faltered, and I slid the tray back in the oven. “She was.”
Aspen’s smile fell away. “Sometimes it’s hard to talk about them.”