Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Sounds good,” I breathe, but he’s out the door before I can blink, the air still buzzing from where his presence lingered.
And just like that, I’m alone in his world.
I spin in a slow circle, then immediately panic over whether that looks desperate. I take a hesitant step toward the living room, running my hand along the back of the sofa. It feels like touching whipped cream—soft, pillowy, inviting. I finger the edge of the navy throw, admiring the subtle herringbone pattern. Is it weird to memorize the feel of someone’s blanket? Probably. Like, I’m ninety percent sure it’s not normal, but at the same time, who freaking cares.
There’s so much more to him than he lets on. The bookshelves against the far wall aren’t just for show. They’re lined with actual, well-loved books. Business, yeah, but also novels with glossy covers, including a whole row of cozy mysteries.
The photographs draw me next. I linger over them, taking in the snapshots of a younger Oliver with his arm slung around a man who must be his dad, both of them grinning for the camera. Another shows a much younger Oliver, missing teeth and mud on his cheeks, kneeling beside a beaming golden retriever. The last one is more recent—him and another man, older, sleek suit and all, standing in what looks like a New York City bar.
Suddenly, I realize I’m full-on snooping, so I jerk my hand away from the frames and retreat to the kitchen peninsula, pretending to inspect the potted herbs. Okay, I feel like a fish out of water. I can’t decide between sitting on his sofa or sitting at the breakfast bar. I hover between options for a full minute, wringing my hands, until I finally perch on the edge of the couch, just waiting. I cross and uncross my legs. I smooth my hair.
After what feels like both forever and a whole ten seconds, the lock clicks. Oliver’s back.
He kicks the door shut with his foot, juggling a large pizza box. When the smell hits me, I realize I’m freaking starving.
“Hope you’re hungry.” Oliver’s voice is a low rumble, the kind that settles between my thighs and lingers. He drops the box onto the coffee table, crowding the stack of magazines, and the look he gives me strips me down to bone and nerve.
“Starving,” I mutter. My voice comes out breathy, and his eyes flicker, dark with heat.
6
oliver
“Dig in.” The words claw out of my throat, more demand than offer. She doesn’t even blink; Cydney goes straight for the largest, most overloaded slice, snatching it up and sinking her teeth in without an ounce of hesitation. I fucking love watching her eat.
She takes half the slice in a single bite, tomato sauce smearing the corner of her mouth, and my cock jerks at the sight. Cydney chews, savoring every molecule, and then she licks her lips with a slow, teasing swipe of her tongue. She catches me watching and raises her brows, like she knows exactly where my filthy thoughts are heading.
“Best pizza in Worthington Hills,” she moans around her next bite, and I swear to God, my cock is harder than steel. “You’ve got good taste, Burkhardt.”
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, eyes tracking every motion of her mouth, every flex of her fingers as she folds the next bite in half. I reach for a slice, but I barely even taste it. My attention is glued to her lips and the confident way she devours every single crumb.
She polishes off her slice and licks her fingers, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on mine the entire time. Fuck. I want to pin her to the sofa and taste every trace of sauce left on her lips, her wrists, between those gorgeous tits.
She sighs, all satisfied and sassy, then reaches for another slice. This woman is going to kill me. “Why aren’t you eating?” she teases, cocking her head like she knows exactly how wound up I am. “You’re staring at me like you’ve never seen a woman eat pizza before.”
I can barely keep my shit together. “I’ve never seen anyone eat like you,” I rasp, my throat dry as sandpaper. “It’s fucking hypnotic.”
She bites into the crust, her tongue flicking out to catch a drip of cheese. My cock throbs against my zipper, and I have to shift on the cushion, desperate for relief. I can’t even taste my own food. My brain is stuck on her. I want her more than I want my next breath.
Fuck it. I set my pizza down and stare at her, zeroing in on the way her lips shine and her eyes dare me to make the next move. My cock is throbbing as my pulse pounds in my ears.
“You keep eating like that, and I’ll forget about dinner and eat you instead.” I don’t soften my voice. I want her to hear the threat, the promise. She freezes with the slice halfway to her mouth, eyes going wide for a half-second before her lips curl.