Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“It’s the key to your work space at the Writer’s Room,” he says, voice gruff. “For you.”
I stare at the key, then up at him, then back at the key. It’s real. He’s real. All of it is real.
Thomas’s hand comes up, cradling my jaw, thumb at the hinge of my chin. He doesn’t rush. He just looks at me, drinking me in.
“Andie,” he says, voice low and level, “I don’t have a ring. And I’m not going to do a big speech, because I’d fuck it up. But I want you. I want all the mornings and all the fights and all the nights with you. Even when you drive me crazy, and honestly, especially then. Will you marry me?”
The question lands between us, simple and huge. My throat closes, and for a second I’m fourteen again, sitting on the bank of the Mississippi, wishing for a way out. But here it is, right in my hand: a future, a room, a life.
I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I’m so happy I could break. “Yes,” I say, too loud and too fast. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He pulls me in, and the kiss is slow, sweet, nothing like the first time or the thousand after. He tastes like whiskey and hope and everything I want.
When we break apart, the world feels brighter. The city is still out there, shining, but in here, I’ve found my place.
I hold up the brass key between us. “You said you didn’t have a ring, so is this key actually my engagement ring?” I tease.
Thomas shrugs, mouth twitching. “If you want it to be.”
I laugh, dropping my forehead to his chest. “You’re impossible.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I let myself go. We stand like that, pressed together, while the city pulses below.
After a while, I say, “I want to see the studio.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Tomorrow. I’ll take you there.”
“Promise?”
He nods, lips against my hair. “Promise.”
I close my eyes, holding him. The key is warm in my hand.
For the first time in my life, I know exactly where I belong.
I don’t remember exactly when the city outside stopped mattering, only that the moment Thomas lifts me off my feet and kisses me against the cold glass, the world contracts to just the two of us and the echo of our breathing. There’s still a low noise from the hallway, a scattered laugh or a glass chiming in the sink, but none of it comes within a mile of what I’m feeling.
After a long minute, I break the kiss, pressing my palm to the center of his chest. I feel the quick skip of his heart beneath the fabric, and I know he feels it too—how much I want him, how close I am to just taking what I want, right here on the goddamn floor. Instead, I slide my hand down his arm, knotting our fingers together, and tug him toward the master bathroom.
He goes, wordless, always a little stunned when I’m the one in charge. He’s so much taller, broader, but the effect of dragging him behind me is electric. The en suite is huge, all white marble and chrome, the glass shower bigger than some apartments I’ve lived in. The air inside is already humid, as if the room’s been waiting for us.
I let go of his hand just inside the door. For a second, I just stand there, soaking in the space, the heat, the impossible fact of my life now. Then, slow and deliberate, I turn to face him, tug the thin straps of my dress off my shoulders, and let it slide down. It pools at my feet in a dark ribbon, leaving me nude and lush, but for the key still pressed in my palm. I set it on the counter, then step closer, shameless.
Thomas watches, his eyes burning into me, the color wild. He takes in every inch: the flush on my cheeks, my big breasts, the way my nipples are already hard. He looks like he wants to devour me, but he waits.
I cock a hip, rest a hand on the marble counter. “You’re overdressed, Mr. Moreland.”
He laughs, then strips his shirt off in one practiced move, tossing it onto the vanity. His chest is ridiculous—sculpted, covered in a light dusting of hair that I want to rake my nails through. I can’t help but stare at the way his body moves, all sinew and tension, and then at the thick bulge in his dress pants. He catches me looking, and his mouth twitches.
“Let me switch off the bathroom camera,” he says, voice a low rumble. “It’ll just take a sec.” It’s something we do now. We still have the security cams for safety and insurance purposes, but when we’re intimate, Thomas turns off the relevant cameras.