Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Shame. These jodhpurs don’t leave a lot to the imagination in my current state.
“What are you cooking up?” My eyes drop to the rosemary in her hand.
“It’s for Zoe. She’s making focaccia.”
“As long as she’s not chopping the arms off an effigy that looks suspiciously like me.”
“So you do know her?”
“Has she poisoned the bread? I wouldn’t blame her.” I let my gaze travel over Primrose’s face. “Tu es à faire perdre la tête à un homme.” You’re enough to make a man lose his head.
She gives a tiny roll of her eyes. “I do wish you’d stop whispering dirty things to me in French.”
I smile, relieved I can say such things. And glad she doesn’t insist on a translation. I already like her more than I planned. Look but don’t touch. Touch but don’t taste. Taste but don’t get too attached. And so go the rules I keep breaking.
Desire has limits, and an ending. And this should feel reassuring. But it’s the little things that seem to trouble me. The ridiculous way my eyes seek her out when I walk into any room. The warmth I feel in my chest when she laughs. The inexplicable joy I get from goading her. I’ll happily be the recipient of her ire—I’ll feed on it, in fact. Small things individually, but they do mount up, until seems like I spend most of my day thinking of her.
But before long, I’ll walk into rooms where she no longer is. And when I see her, she’ll only be a memory. It’s odd how my body is counting down the hours until tonight while my brain has already begun counting the days we have left.
“Come with me.” I take her hand, intending what, I’m not sure. Though the animal in me is already on his way to a place far less visible.
“The bread—”
“It can wait.”
“What if the children come back out?”
“Then I’d better take you somewhere they can’t find us.”
“Luc, be serious,” she says, though she doesn’t put up much of a fight as she trails along behind me, her fingers in mine.
“I love it when you say my name.” I glance back at her. “My real name, that is.”
“I only ever use your real name, Monsieur.”
Her innocent expression seems to suggest she’s just insulted me. What other names has she been using for me, I wonder? “I will find out,” I purr warningly.
“Try your best. Sir.”
I make a sound between a snort and a laugh as I lead her to the disused landscaper’s shed. It’s perfect for a moment of privacy, out of sight and shaded by a gnarled pomegranate tree. No one will think of looking here for me.
The old clay wall is warm from the afternoon sun, the scent of baked soil and dried wood heavy in the air. As her back meets the wall, a small gasp escapes her. My body responds instantly, anticipation tightening beneath my skin.
I’ve been thinking about her for far too many hours and, now that she’s here, I don’t want to wait any longer.
“You’re far too tempting,” I whisper, as I watch my knuckles chart the side of her throat. Her honey-colored hair falls over the back of my hand in waves.
She swallows but is valiant in her response. “Let the record show that I’m not the one who seems unable to wait until later.”
I brace my forearm beside her head and watch her breath speed up. “I think you’ve kept me waiting long enough, don’t you?” My hand settles at her waist, and I brush my lips over hers.
“I tried not to want you, but you kind of made that impossible.”
“That was the plan.” And my intention right now is to kiss her slowly, thoroughly, as though we have all the time in the world. Though her plan, it seems, is very different, as her mouth meets mine and fingers rake through my hair, dragging a rasping sound from my throat. My fingers flex on her hips as my breathing becomes embarrassingly uneven when she sucks my tongue into her mouth.
“Primevère.” I draw away, before this ends quickly and embarrassingly, when she follows—actually follows my mouth. “Now who’s desperate?” I give a satisfied tilt of my lips.
“I’m not.” Her answer is immediate and contradicted by the hand she still has fisted in my shirt.
God, her competitive nature, I adore—
I shut the thought down before it finalizes. Such dangerous territory. Leaning in, I lower my face to her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume, warm skin, and rosemary.
“It’s okay to admit it,” I murmur, plucking the sprigs from her fingers. “I know I’m irresistible.”
“Big-headed, more like.”
I press my smile to her skin. This is better. Desire I can handle. It’s the rest I need to stop feeding.
“Well, that too.” Taking her hand in mine, I slide it between our bodies. She gives a little purr as I press it over my cock.