Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“And then Rick makes Ilsa get on the plane, because he’s learned not to be selfish. He puts humanity above his own feelings. It’s about sacrifice. What we’ll do for the people we love.” I paused. “Sometimes we have to give them up. Not every love story can have a happy ending.”
“Speaking of happy endings,” Dash said, sliding the side of his index finger along the seam of my jeans.
“Dashiel Buckley!” Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, I pulled his head back. “Is sex all you can think about?”
“Yes.” He shifted on top of me. “Right now, sex is all I can think about.”
Laughing, I widened my knees so his hips were sandwiched between my thighs. “At least you’re honest.”
“This is what happens when you make me feel so comfortable just being my stripped-down self, Ari.” He shimmied down my body, undid my jeans and yanked them off, along with my panties.
I sighed. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m also ready for dessert.”
“I have actual dessert. Want some ice cream?”
“No, thank you,” he said, lowering his mouth between my legs. “All I want is pure Sugar.”
My eyes closed as his tongue swept up my center. “I have that too.”
I ended up on my knees in front of him on the couch, his jeans at his ankles, my head in his lap, his hands full of my hair.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re such a good girl to take it all like that.”
Every inch of my skin tingled, and my clit fluttered. I went harder at him, and within minutes, he was filling my mouth. When I felt the last pulses of his orgasm subside between my lips, I swallowed and picked up my head, grateful for oxygen.
His jaw hung open, his eyes closed. His chest still rose and fell with accelerated breaths.
“How was that for a happy ending?”
“That was much sexier than the ending of Casablanca.” He opened his eyes, relaxing his grip on my hair. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I smiled and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I love your hands in my hair.”
“You should let me braid it sometime.”
“Stop it, you can’t braid hair.” I sat back on my heels so he could pull his jeans up.
“Want to bet? I’ll prove it. Turn around.”
I turned around and he moved to the edge of the couch so his knees bracketed my shoulders. I’d showered after work this afternoon, and my curls had dried in soft ringlets. He ran his fingers through them, and I closed my eyes.
“Okay, first I make three sections and now I cross this one over,” he narrated, “and then that one. And then this one again.”
I pictured the plait forming as he worked his way down between my shoulder blades, a look of concentration on his handsome face. “How did you learn to braid?”
“Someone taught me.”
“Who?” I asked, feeling the sting of jealousy. Was it someone he’d dated?
“Her name was Catrina. She was a patient on the oncology floor of a children’s hospital where I was doing a visit for the Wishing Tree Foundation.”
“What’s that?”
“An organization that grants wishes to kids with terminal illnesses but also arranges visits from celebrities.”
“I didn’t know you did that.” My heart absorbed the sweetness of him like a sponge soaking up water. “It must be hard.”
“It’s hard to see kids suffering, yes. But it’s not about me. And I’m good at keeping those feelings buried. Lots of practice.”
I thought of a six-year-old boy who didn’t speak for months. Who only spoke again when he could inhabit another character. “But is that . . . healthy? To always keep those feelings buried?”
“Probably not. But you do it for long enough, you get used to it.” His hands stopped moving in my hair. “Done! But how will it stay in so I can show you?”
“Here. Give me the end.” I reached over one shoulder and took it from him. “I need to look in the mirror.”
He followed me to the bathroom and watched as I pulled a hand mirror from a drawer and turned around to check his work in the mirror over the sink. “Well? How did I do?”
“Perfect,” I said, studying the loose braid he’d fashioned. “I’m very impressed. And I’ll never doubt your skills again.”
“Good.” He tapped my nose.
Smiling, I tucked the hand mirror back into the drawer and wrapped an elastic around the end of the braid. I didn’t want to take it out yet.
He leaned against the bathroom doorframe, watching me. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I said honestly.
“Do you want me to stay?”
As if I’d ever turn him down. As if I were even capable of it.
“Yes,” I said, even though I understood the danger posed by spending night after night in his arms. “I want you to stay.”
“I have a surprise for you,” he said as we quickly cleaned up the kitchen.