Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I’m not old, and I’m not a green boy. I do not get a hard-on at the flash of a tit. Though present circumstances (almost) point otherwise.
“See?” She tugs the ties that turn out to be sleeves of her T-shirt. The fabric is just pressed to her chest, kept there by the knotted sleeves.
There’d be nothing to stop me from sliding my hand in there.
Apart from willpower.
And the pretty solid punch to the head she might deliver. Deservedly so.
But, fuck me, if she doesn’t stop playing with it, I’m gonna need to sit down and slide a throw pillow over my lap as my body recalls viscerally how perfect her skin feels. How delicious she tastes.
“Clever, right?” Lavender’s smile is wide and quite lovely as she begins to tie it again.
The echo of her playful words curls around my ear and slides like temptation down my spine. “I’m sorry I didn’t think.” I give my head an actual shake. “We could’ve called out and gotten you something to wear from one of the local boutiques.” Not that the shopping is anything like London. Gibraltar is, in many ways, like a small town.
“What’s wrong with what I have on?” Her expression seems shuttered as she looks up from tucking the sleeves in.
“Nothing.” Again, I’m an idiot. “You look great. Really great.”
She eyes me with mistrust.
“Really. I even like the boots.”
“You are such a liar.” Her mouth tips provocatively.
“Everyone bends the truth. But not right now.”
“Really?”
“Here’s a little more honesty for you. I’d like them better if they were under my bed.”
“Hilarious.” She stretches the word out as she rolls her pretty blue eyes. Eyes like sapphires. Then she props her hand to her cocked hip and demands, “What?”
“What?”
She cants her head to the side, studying me like I’m studying her. “You’re staring at me.”
Because I want to eat you until I’ve quenched this thirst. “I’m not allowed to stare?”
“It’s a free country. Gibraltar is a British protectorate.” Her delivery renders her statement a question.
“It is.”
“There you go, then. Free country. But I still don’t have to like it.”
“You don’t like me looking at you?”
“It’s a general dislike,” she says, slightly antagonistically.
“Tough. I want to look.” She says nothing as I close the space between us. My gaze slides over her hair before I reach out and twirl an artful, dangling lock around my index finger. “Your skin isn’t the only thing that caught the sun today.” My voice is low as I rub the silky strands between my fingertips.
“I don’t have my straightening irons. I thought for a wild minute I would have to wear it in plaits. You know, like pigtails?”
“I know pigtails.” My knowledge of girl’s hairstyles has increased dramatically, but that’s a topic for another day. “You’d look good in pigtails.” As I release the curl, it bounces back into place.
“Pervert.” She grins. “I can’t believe you fell for that.”
“Hook, line, and sinker.” As long as it’s only her jokes I fall for. “Shall we?” I say, offering her my arm.
“Paint the town red?”
“You’ve obviously never been to Gibraltar before.”
“I haven’t had this fun in ages!” Lavender slides into the seat opposite me, her genuinely happy expression flashing alternately blue and pink, thanks to the club’s lighting.
It’s been years since I’ve been in a club I don’t own. Definitely not a club like this. Floors sticky with cheap liquor and watered-down drinks. Though, in Lavender’s case, that might not be a bad thing. She seems pretty buzzed, which wasn’t my intention. Not that I seem to have any authority as far as my wife is concerned.
My wife. The woman determined to make me crazy. The woman who makes me feel unhinged. She wants me, that much is clear, but she also wants the upper hand. To challenge me at every turn.
Well, princess, top dog is my position. I won’t surrender that to anyone.
“You look like you were having fun.” My gaze strays to the bar where Lavender’s most recent dance partner is throwing back a beer.
“You don’t mind, do you?” She blinks as I hook my finger around a curl stuck to her glistening cheek.
“Mind you dancing? Why would I?” Why the fuck would I mind my wife dancing with another man—on my wedding night of all nights? I guess the more pertinent question is, why am I pretending it doesn’t piss me off?
Because of this endless game of one-upmanship.
“I wouldn’t want you to feel threatened,” she says, sounding like the opposite would be a delight.
“Princess,” I murmur disparagingly as I reach out and turn my glass ninety degrees.
“You don’t think he’s a match for you?” She casually glances over her shoulder. The asshole at the bar spots her, then smiles and waves.
“I don’t feel threatened by a man whose facial hair hasn’t yet come in.”
“Mean,” she says before setting her lips around the straw, though it sounds more like approval.