Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
My eyebrows dip when my phone vibrates. When I check it, there’s a text from Ford.
Ford: I really want to be up that dress right about now.
I put the phone down without replying.
And then it vibrates again.
Ford: Excuse yourself. Now.
I look up and find him watching me. I put down the phone again and turn to Hawke, listening to whatever he’s discussing. Something about fighting with his bare hands, I think.
“Billie, I need vanilla extract. Show me what it looks like,” Ford says, cutting across the conversation like a sharpened blade. Everyone looks at him, and Hawke starts laughing.
“Man, you don’t even know how to turn on an oven.” And I know that’s the truth because when I’ve baked at his house, he seems baffled, like I’m using some kind of witchcraft. But with what I recently learned about him, I think he was most likely making notes. He could probably perfect some of the hardest recipes within a year with his apparent addictive personality.
“I was attempting to make our parents a cake for their anniversary. Maybe you should fucking help,” he snaps at Hawke, who raises his hand in defense.
“No fucking thank you. That woman’s poisoned us so much with her cooking that I think if I were to return the favor, she’d put a bullet in my head.”
“Or a stiletto,” Ivy says casually as she takes a sip of her drink.
“Ooh. I heard about that. Is it true? Did Anya kill a man with her stiletto?” Jewel asks.
“Yep,” Hawke says proudly.
“Maybe you should just pay Billie to do it,” Eli suggests, and Jewel smirks. “We all know none of us can bake for shit compared to her.”
He ignores everyone else, his focus solely on me.
“Vanilla extract?” he asks again, then turns to Jewel. “I can take yours, right?”
Jewel nods, but she probably doesn’t even know what it looks like either. That’s confirmed when she says to me, “You’ll show him, right?”
That simmering fire stokes in my stomach because, of course, Ford is conniving enough to figure out how to get me alone when I’m trying my hardest to ignore him.
“Of course.” I stand at the same time Ford does. I excuse myself and walk through the door into the kitchen. The minute the door shuts, a set of hands are on me and pushing me forward.
“What are you—” My words cut off when his hands slide around my ass and lift me. My legs wrap around his waist as he carries me to the pantry and closes us in the dark. The only light available is from the small crack at the bottom of the door.
I feel his length pushing against me as his lips waste no time finding mine. I’m overstimulated as he consumes me, my hands bunching in his shirt to pull him closer and deepen the kiss. I feel starved and deprived from all the times he wouldn’t kiss me before. And now he’s eating at my mouth without restraint. And, fuck me, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed us.
I can’t think straight as my body reacts naturally to his, so certain in my desire for him.
He holds me up with one arm as he undoes his trousers, then I feel his cock pushing against my underwear. My hips grind against him, a small whimper crawling up my throat as all my inhibitions fade, and I’m dragged back into a world where he was all I knew, where he was all I wanted.
“You taste so fucking good. You’re my favorite sweet,” he says between kisses, and I believe him. Even if I don’t know what we are or what we will ever become… I believe him. My body trusts him. And it’s just my heart that falters. And that’s what hurts because of how desperately I want this.
Of how desperately I fight against the undeniable need to have it.
To have him.
I slide my hand into the neck of his shirt and dig my nails into his back as he trails worshipping kisses down my neck.
He lifts me a little higher, and his cock at my entrance, only a scrap of thin fabric keeping him out. He slides my panties to the side, and his lips pause on my neck.
“Have you missed me?” he murmurs.
I don’t reply. Fuck him and his magnificent cock.
“Tell me, Chaos.” His cock is teasing me, the head pressed against me so I can feel him but can’t have him.
I lean back and glare at him, furious that he’s dangling the bait in front of me. I can’t say it. I can’t tell him how much I’ve missed him. It’s not fair to either of us. But all this restraint has been killing me inside every day. And now it’s bubbling over and pouring into me as I rip at his clothes.
“Do you want to hit me?” he asks, and I nod. It’s not sane, and it’s intensely fierce. But I would rather hit the man I love than tell him I miss him. Because that’s our twisted language, and I know it gets him off.