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)
She blinks, perhaps as her mind plays catch-up. “I don’t want Emmy to lose her job.”
“You’re not the nanny right now, and I’m not a father. We’re just two people alone in the dark and enjoying each other.”
“Strangers, like before.” Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, the sight of it like a magnet to my own mouth. My lips coax and tease as hers tremble. “I’m not very good at this.” Her hand falls from my shirt.
“Contrary to appearances,” I whisper, pressing that hand to my groin. I swallow her sigh as I whisper in French what a sweet little perfectionist she is.
“Later, you’ll be disappointed.”
“C’est impossible,” I whisper into another kiss, my hands sliding over her shaking shoulders.
It is impossible to be any more endeared, and I can’t blame the Armagnac. I have drunk a little too much, but I’m not drunk. My senses aren’t blunted. If anything, they’re heightened. I know what I’m doing, and I know this is absolute madness. But I also know her words seem a little too strong for just perfectionism, considering how into this she is.
I put my hands to her shoulders as I reluctantly tear my mouth from hers. “Tell me. Whatever it is you’re trying to tell me, just spit it out.”
She’s so fucking lovely, her skin so soft, and her mouth so tempting, I can barely fucking stand it.
“What your friend said about me in Paris. I think he might be right.”
I’m not sure what she’s saying as I, figuratively at least, take a step back.
“Excellent, Primrose,” she mutters. “Way to go.” She casts suddenly glossy eyes to the high ceiling.
“Stop.” I take her face in my hands and bring her watery gaze to mine. “What could there possibly be to cry about?”
“I’m not crying,” she says harshly.
“Why are you upset?” I ask, tone softening.
“Because you were kissing me until I opened my big mouth and ruined it. As per.”
As per usual? “Do you want to kiss me?”
“Do you want to kiss me? Because if you do, please get on with it.” She tilts her head, eyes falling closed. There’s something less than stimulating about the motion, something a little grin-and-bear-it. But then her eyes open quite suddenly, their color like the sky over a story sea. “Provided you’re not about to push me out the door again.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like that? To leave.”
She straightens, and my hands fall away, hers rising and dropping with a slap to her bare thighs. “No.” She doesn’t sound at all happy about that. “Because I am curious, even if that makes me a bad friend.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t want Emmy to lose her job.”
“You think I would do that?”
“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what you’re capable of.”
I give a wolfish smile to hide my consternation, my answer purely sexual. “Aren’t you?” But how could I expect her good opinion with how I’ve behaved? “Tell me more about your curiosity.”
One shoulder lifts and falls, and the meaning behind it seems heavier than she’d have me believe. “I suppose I’m just not sure it would work a second time.”
My brow furrows.
“What happened—how you made me feel? When I, you know?”
“When you came? Panting, wrecked, and pulling at my hair?”
“When I climaxed,” she corrects primly. The color in her cheeks deepens, though she pushes on. “But I’m not sure it’ll happen a second time because I’m sexually defective.”
“Is that your professional diagnosis, Doctor?”
“It’s not funny,” she retorts. “I’m serious.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you but at your hypothesis.”
“It’s true. I haven’t—”
“Did you fake it in Ardeo?” I ask, twirling a pale lock of her hair loosely around my index finger. I already know the answer which is perhaps why my question sounds like a taunt.
“No, of course not. But what if it was a one off? What if I can’t… I don’t ever—only when I’m alone.”
Her answer bypasses my brain, affecting my body immediately. I set aside the imagery for examination later. “You can make yourself come.”
A nod.
“But with a partner… not? Only once.”
“There’s no need to look so smug about it.”
“Why, when it makes me feel special?” To put it mildly. And rabid for a repeat. She was so vocal, her hands in my hair, and the way she pulsed and shook. Though I suppose the astounded look on her face makes better sense now.
“I’m delighted to have played some part in your discovery, but as a man who appreciates robust evidence,” I almost purr. “I suggest we replicate the special event to test your hypothesis.” Even if it isn’t the best plan I’ve ever had, in terms of propriety.
It had taken half a bottle of premium Armagnac and a lot of wallowing to reach the point of acceptance: it would be imprudent, erroneous, reckless, not to mention borderline insane to fuck her, nanny or not. She might be perfect in so many ways—single, sane, and with us only temporarily—but it would be the height of stupidity. Sweetly inexperienced and with a tongue as sharp glass, I would not become a fucking cliché.