Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I followed that impulse, letting my gaze slide down his chest toward his stomach, finding unexpected etches of a six-pack, not heavily coiled, not evident of too many hours spent working out, but confident and proof of some sort of physical activity. Something that kept him thin as well, making the outline of a few of his upper ribs visible under his perfectly imperfect skin. My greedy eyes moved lower, finding his Adonis belt muscles in the indents of his hips, disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.
What I wouldn't give to see more.
"Like what ya see, duchess?" he asked, voice taking on the huskiness of arousal, a sound that made my sex clench hard, anticipating something I promised myself I wouldn't get to experience.
"Not bad," I told him, hearing the airiness in my tone, knowing he heard it too, knowing what he was branding me right then. Liar. "Those scars have a story?" I asked, watching as the shirt fell to the ground, the arm lifting, dragging my gaze slowly back up, finding his arms raised above his head.
I couldn't tell what he was doing for a moment before I saw his hair drift down from the bun he'd had it wrapped in, falling over his shoulders in a mass of waves that just begged to be touched.
I hadn't ever had a thing for long hair on guys, but I couldn't help but think of my fingers curled in the strands while he was buried between my thighs, dragging him up by it until he settled inside.
"That's a good look on ya, Lou," he observed, the sound a rolling, rumbling thing from deep in his chest.
"What look?"
His lips quirked up at that before his teeth snagged his lower lip for a second. "Didn't figure ya for a game player, duchess. Ya know exactly how ya are lookin' at me right now. Same way I looked at ya when ya opened the door lookin' like that."
Caught, I paused, then shook my head. "Regardless of how I might have been looking at you, nothing is going to happen. So why the hell are you taking your clothes off in my room?"
"Sink drips. Shower was clogged with hair. I'm borrowing yours."
"You could have asked," I told him as he took a few steps toward the room in question.
"I coulda," he agreed, stepping into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, dropping them down, giving me a glorious view of his bare ass as I realized Adler was a commando kind of guy.
He reached into the shower, switching the water on, turned just an inch or two to the side, blocking his goods from view.
It looked like my voyeuristic self would have to settle for his ass. Which was no hardship, all taut muscle just begging to have your hands sink into while he's deep inside you.
A low, tortured whimper ripped from somewhere deep within me as he moved the curtain aside to step in.
And as he did it, I'd swear he was smiling.
Like maybe he'd heard me.
But no.
That wasn't possible.
It was barely audible to me.
And he had been standing by the incessant pelting of water on the tub floor.
"There's room for two," he called out a delicious invitation, making the pressure on my lower stomach become oppressive, forcing me to take a deep, steadying breath before I forced my legs to carry me over to the bed, sitting down, actively trying not to think of him in that shower. Of what he might be doing in there. Forget jerking off, just washing himself was erotic enough for me in the moment, his scarred hands moving over his understated muscles of his stomach, pelvis, lower.
It took a superhuman strength to stay on the bed, hands curled into the edge of the mattress, sheets gripped much like they would be if I invited him to the bed like I had been wanting to do.
Neighbors are a bad idea, I reminded myself just a moment before the water cut off.
"Hey, duchess," his voice called.
"What?" My voice sounded snippy. Short.
"Got a situation."
"Oh, is that what you call it?" This time, amused, but dry.
"Handled that," he shot back, nothing but sincerity in his voice, making my poor lady bits quiver in appreciation and disappointment.
"What then?"
"I forgot to grab a towel. Don't feel like slippin', and fallin' on my arse on the floor."
Hands pressing into my thighs, I pushed up, steeling myself, and making my way into the bathroom, grabbing a scratchy white towel off the vanity. A nice, fluffy, oversized amenity it was not, but at least it reeked heavily of bleach. You could take small comforts in little things like that at motels. Sometimes, they smelled like moldy basement. Other times, like must, as though they had been pulled off the rack still wet from a previous user, folded, and put back in the cabinet as though they had been laundered. I kept backup towels in my trunk for just those reasons.