Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
God, even his voice turned me on. My stomach tightened at his tone, but I managed to get the door unlocked. If he only knew how close I’d been to kissing him in the kitchen last week, perhaps he’d be a little more careful throwing around his sex appeal.
Maybe I needed to stay out of the kitchen and away from his mouth, period. Every day, it got a little harder to ignore the hum between us, and giving in wasn’t something I could afford. If I went down that path with Nixon…well, Peter wouldn’t be the only one making false assumptions about how I climbed the company ladder.
“She said that your sex life was private,” Quinn answered. “Which I respect, but I also know how…hmm…how do I say this. How public your liaisons can be?”
The guys chuckled, and I winced, pushing open the door.
“I haven’t slept with anyone since before rehab. Not that it’s any of your business,” Nixon answered smoothly. “Now, my babysitter and I would like to get a few hours of sleep before sound check.”
“Eleven a.m.,” Ethan reminded us.
“I’m sure Shannon has it in both her planners.” Nixon followed me into the room, the door shutting heavily behind him.
“And three alarms set,” I responded sweetly, slipping my purse over my head and dropping it onto the massive dining room table. The suite had two bedrooms and an open-concept living and dining area, so it wasn’t like we were sharing the same room or anything, but it still felt more intimate than the house in Colorado or even his apartment in Seattle. There weren’t as many places to run. I kicked off my heels and sighed in pure pleasure when my bare feet met the polished hardwood.
“Ooh, getting all casual on me?” Nixon asked with a grin.
I looked down at my black sheath dress and single strand of pearls. “Hey, not all of us go out for business dinners in…whatever that is.” I motioned to his outfit.
He glanced down at his vintage Doors tee and jeans that rode low enough on his hips I got a quick flash of skin when he shrugged. “This is what we call dinner-with-friends attire.”
“Because you were having dinner with friends,” I said. “While I adore Quinn and like Jonas and Ethan, it’s business for me.”
I felt that smoldering gaze like a flame as he ran it up and down my frame. “Well, hopefully now that we’re in our room, you’ll go grab your Casual Friday pajamas, because I’m not continuing our Westworld marathon with you dressed like you might be called at any moment to race off and host a cocktail party.” He lifted his brows.
“Fine. I’ll change.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’ll order room service. I’m feeling snacky.” He was already headed for the phone. “How do french fries and ice cream sound to you?”
“Like I’m going to gain ten pounds,” I called over my shoulder as I walked into my room. I reached behind my neck, then grumbled. This dress was such a pain in the ass.
“Real men dig the curves,” he called back.
“Since when?” I asked as I walked back in. “Last time I checked, all the women you sleep with are thin enough to wear designer-sample sizes.”
“What?” He paused with the phone halfway to his ear.
“You like thin women. It’s okay to have a type. I’m just saying that you do not, in fact, dig curves unless they’re on your guitar.” I turned around, giving him my back. “Would you please unzip me? I can’t reach.”
His footsteps drew near, and then he swept my hair to the side. “You always smell like coconuts.”
“It’s my shampoo.”
His fingers skimmed the length of my neck. “I like your curves.”
“Nixon,” I whispered, shaking my head. He liked to break the tension with shameless flirting. I understood that was part of who he was, but I was reaching my threshold. Every morning, I wondered if today would be the day I broke and finally jumped him—the day I threw away my chances at being taken seriously in this industry.
His hand was warm on the exposed skin of my back as he steadied the fabric, and then he unzipped my dress, moving so slowly it felt sensual and intimate—like an act between lovers, not roommates.
“Your skin is flawless,” he whispered once the zipper reached the bottom.
“Yours is like a living canvas,” I replied, my chin grazing my shoulder. “Covered in art and stories.” There was a ghost of a caress at the dip in my spine, and I felt more than heard him retreat.
“So that’s a yes to the ice cream?” He cleared his throat.
“Sure. Just as long as it’s—”
“Not strawberry, I know. By the way, I like the green. It matches your eyes.” He dialed room service, and I escaped into my room.
I glanced at my dress in the mirror. If he thought this was green, he needed to get his eyes checked. It only took a second to slip out of the dress and hang it up, but as I passed by the mirror, my cheeks heated.