Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
When I grab my wine glass, I take a long sip, tilting my head back and sure enough, when I look at Tate again, he’s watching me ravenously. Uh oh, I may have overplayed my hand. But then he takes a deep breath and fixes me with those deep blue eyes.
“Laurie, how did someone as beautiful as you end up on the streets?” he asks in a direct tone.
I panic a little. I haven’t thought of my backstory yet. But I can certainly hide my indecision with solid common sense.
“Unfortunately, beauty doesn’t save someone from homelessness,” I say in a quiet voice. “Nor intelligence, nor any other factor. Anyone could become homeless. Even you.”
“Even me,” Tate agrees smoothly. “Medical debt, not to mention credit card debt, are very real things. But I seem to be asking all the wrong questions. Let me try something else. How long have you been in New York?”
I pause for a moment. Should I lie? But then I decide not to.
“My whole life,” I answer truthfully. “What about you?”
He grins.
“Same,” he says. “I grew up in Ithaca and then went to Columbia for business school.”
I know, I think, because my brother did, too.
“So what do you do?” I ask.
He grins. “That’s a very NYC question, but I make electric cars actually. Very fascinating stuff and very boring shit at the same time. It depends on the day. But I love it. Are you interested in cars?”
I shake my head.
“No, but my brother’s always really been into his rides.” Immediately, I wince--I shouldn’t have mentioned having a brother.
Tate raises a brow. “Is your brother in New York?”
“Um,” I say, and stare at the charcuterie board, trying to decide what to say. “No. Not anymore.”
“Ah.” Tate takes a sip of his wine, and I do the same, hoping that the implication of a tragic backstory gets him to change the subject. Thankfully, he does.
We chat as we eat, circling back to art and segueing into sports and books. Tate is an Eagles fan because his dad is from Philly; I, like a good New Yorker, have always rooted for the Giants, and we rib each other good-naturedly. I feel myself getting warm, sitting next to the fire while drinking my third glass of wine, and unconsciously wipe my hand across my brow.
“Hot?” Tate asks, and I nod.
“A little.”
“Me, too,” he growls. Before I’m entirely ready for it, he stands up and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing acres of bronzed skin and those washboard abs yet again. My mouth literally goes dry at the sight of this gorgeous god. Then, to my surprise, he unbuckles his belt and lets his pants fall. That’s when my jaw drops. What is he doing?
But with a devilish grin, soon Tate’s clad only in a pair of black boxer shorts. Tight black boxer shorts, I should add. And it doesn’t help that his package is still semi-erect and very large.
“What are you doing?” I ask hoarsely.
“Just getting comfortable,” he drawls lazily. “Didn’t you say you were hot too? Why don’t you take that robe off?”
I stare at him as a pink flush crawls over my cheeks.
“I’m sorry?”
But Tate acts like nothing’s amiss.
“Take it off,” he says with a grin. “You’ll feel better, I promise honey.”
Oh my god, this is such a dirty scenario, yet before I realize it, my fingers are loosening the belt to my robe, and slowly, the terrycloth slides down my shoulders. Unable to make eye contact, I pull open the vee, revealing my (thankfully matching) pale pink panties and bra. My nipples are jutting against the thin fabric, and a shadowy patch peeps from between my thighs. I hope he can’t see because it’s quite dim in the sitting room, but from the way his blue eyes flare, I know he does.
I watch Tate watch me.
“Have some more strawberries,” he says, rather abruptly.
Then, Tate takes a strawberry, pushes the nearly-empty board aside, and kneels in front of me. When I don’t protest (because I’m too busy screaming what am I doing?! in my head) he lightly takes my chin in one hand, and dangles the fruit in front of my mouth with the other.
As if entranced, I part my lips.
This strawberry is juicy, delicious, candy-sweet, and I savor it as I bite down and Tate slowly pulls the stem away. Then, as soon as I swallow, Tate closes the gap between us, and claims my mouth with his own.
It’s an incredible kiss. It’s a magical kiss. It’s one of those kisses that makes your eyes flutter and your legs turn into jelly, so thank goodness I’m sitting down. I moan into his open mouth without meaning to, and he growls his approval against my lips, all the while holding my curvy form tighter, closer, to him.
His skin against mine, combined with the heat of the flames, makes me feel as if I’m being bathed in fire. I want to feel more of him, and suddenly, I want him to burn with need, too.