Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Most arguments have a winner, but as I pull up outside of her house, I get the very distinct feeling that we both somehow lost this one.
Chapter 19
Sylvie
Begged.
I’m stuck on that single word for the last half of the trip back to Farmington.
He’s right and I hate him for it.
I begged that first night, whimpering with need when he prolonged what we both wanted. He wasn’t a man to just get in and get out like I’ve grown accustomed to. He took his time, kept us both on the edge until neither of us could fight it any longer. I despised him in the moment, but when the time came to fully let go, it was a moment that will stick with me for the rest of my life—the way his eyes rolled back, the tension in his muscles, the utter perfection of feeling his cock throb inside of me.
I begged him last night, with my eyes, with the tremble of my legs, with the breathless moans I did my best to hide. He noticed. The man notices everything.
Silence is thick between us as he pulls into my driveway, hitting the button on the garage door opener. I wait until it’s open fully before climbing out of the car. I hate the way his bike just sits there on the stained concrete as if it belongs. I enter my home through the inside garage door and lock it behind me.
I need to put this weekend behind me completely. Will is taking care of the sale of the property in Telluride, and I won’t have to return to that town ever again. Spade won’t be forced to accompany me. I can avoid him altogether.
Eventually, I’ll be able to forget the way our bodies came together as if evolution intended for them to meet. Eventually.
The buckle on my purse clanks in the empty kitchen when I drop it on the counter, my hand immediately lifting to rub the tension between my brows.
“Ten more minutes, max,” I whisper, a compromise of how much longer I’ll give myself to think of Spade as the roar of his bike in my garage swims around me.
It doesn’t immediately drive away, and I refuse to think what that could mean. Jesus, if that man knocks on the door and asks to come inside, would I be able to tell him no?
I doubt it. My mental game at rejecting him is strong, but I crumble when faced with the real choice.
I freeze when a knock strikes my front door. I know it’s him. What I don’t understand is my rush to pull open the front door. The man is giving me whiplash, or maybe I’m giving myself whiplash. I want him gone, but at the same time, I feel this keen sense of desperation to have him here.
“What?” I snap when I open the front door.
The man has the audacity to smirk at me as if he has unfettered access to my thoughts, but maybe it’s because I’m finding myself unable to control my actions around this man.
My eyes drop to his lips, wondering how they’d feel on mine rather than just my skin.
I snap my eyes up to him. That’s exactly what’s wrong with this entire situation, I realize in a sudden flash of cognizance. At the time, when he was inside of me, I felt like he was giving me everything he had to offer, but that’s not the case. The no kiss rule feels like a hot hand against my cheek, just another slap to the face like forgetting me.
“Sylvie.” My name is a whisper on his lips, and since I’m a glutton for punishment and can’t seem to take a hint, it sounds needy and filled with anguish.
Clearing my throat, I straighten my spine a little as I meet his eyes.
“May I help you?”
Like the sadist I know him to be, he drops his own eyes to my lips, but instead of feeling proud to have his attention there, it feels like a taunt, as if he knows I feel a loss and he’s still unwilling to give it to me.
“You’ll need to close the garage door. Here are your keys.”
I hold my hand out, flat palm facing up, expecting him to just drop them in my hand and leave, but that would be the courteous thing to do. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Spade is that in the bedroom or out, the man doesn’t adhere to common courtesy.
One warm hand cups the back of mine as the other drops my keys into my palm, the tips of his fingers moving slowly across my wrist.
A shiver runs up my forearm, and of course it’s something that he notices, his tongue sneaking out to run along the lower curve of his utterly perfect mouth.