Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I kick off my shoes, straighten the stack of mail I’ve been ignoring, and wipe down the kitchen island even though there’s nothing on it. I fix the throw blanket on the couch, move the remote so it’s perfectly aligned, open a window for fresh air, then worry that it’s too cold and close it again.
I don’t do this. I don’t straighten things. I don’t fuss or overprepare. I sure as hell don’t lose my mind over a woman.
I’ve never done any of this for anyone. Hell, I’ve never had anyone in this apartment at all.
And tonight, Daisy’s coming here because I told her to. I’m not even sure why, but the demand went straight from my brain to a text before I had time to think what it meant. I hit send before I could stop myself.
I glance at the time. She should be here—
A knock.
My heart jumps. I roll my shoulders, trying to look casual, like I didn’t just reorganize my entire life out of sheer frustration, and then I open the door.
She’s standing there in the hallway, her hair loose, cheeks pink from the cold, wrapped in a dark coat that makes her eyes stand out even more than usual.
“Hi,” she says, lifting her hand in a small wave.
We stare at each other a long moment, then my hands are on her waist, pulling her into me hard. My mouth slams onto hers and the kiss is instant, hungry, burning up every inch of space between us. She gasps into my mouth, fingers already curling into the front of my shirt, pulling me closer as if we’re picking up exactly where we left off in her apartment. And maybe we are.
I drag her inside, slam the door, and back her into it. I press my body into hers and she responds by anchoring my hips to her hips. Christ… zero to sixty in two seconds flat. My mind whirls… do I fuck her here against the door or on the couch, which is only slightly farther, or haul her up over my shoulder and carry her to my room?
“Wait!” she gasps against my mouth and I go perfectly still. I raise my head, peer down at her. “We need to talk.”
Four words that no man wants to hear. “Talk about what?”
“About rules,” she says, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“Rules?” I echo.
“We need to talk about us… what we’re doing,” she says, eyes boring into mine. “About this. About… you and me.”
She doesn’t look nervous. Instead, she looks ready, which somehow makes me the one who feels a little unsteady.
“The only way this works,” she continues, “is if we agree it’s zero strings attached, no expectations beyond the moment.”
This doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, this sounds like the conversation I should be instigating. But I’m on board. “Nothing complicated. Just… casual.”
Her expression doesn’t change right away, but there’s a tiny change in her posture—her shoulders loosening, her breath easing—like she’s been waiting for the parameters too.
“Casual,” she repeats. “No strings. That’s the only way we can make this work.”
The relief that moves through me is instant, almost dizzying.
“Good,” I say, fingers digging into her hips and making her eyes go dark. “I’m glad.”
“Same.”
“Now, where were we?”
My hands move up to her face, framing it almost tenderly, which is funny. I don’t have a tender bone in my body. She tips her head back, eyes dropping to my mouth. Now that the rules are set, the invitation to operate within those boundaries is there. I lower my head, brush my lips over hers. Daisy sighs and goes up to her tiptoes, deepening the kiss. It’s fucking nirvana and I take every bit she offers.
All I care about is the way her body presses into mine, the soft sound she makes when my hand slides up the back of her neck, the way her mouth opens for me like she’s been waiting on this forever.
I spin her, maneuver her back four steps, around the edge of the couch. No strings. Yeah, right. It’s on.
I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it all day, and she kisses me back like she’s been starving longer. The second her tongue slides against mine, every half-assed promise about “casual” evaporates. There’s nothing casual about the way she drags me down on top of her, or the way I groan into her mouth when her hips roll up to meet mine.
We crash together onto the couch and the kiss never breaks. My hands are under her sweater in seconds, palms maneuvering over warm skin, thumbs brushing the lace edge of her bra until she arches hard and gasps my name against my lips.
“Grizz—”
I answer by dragging the sweater over her head and tossing it somewhere behind us. Her bra is black, simple, devastating. I mouth my way down her throat, tasting the faint salt of her skin, the pulse hammering under my tongue. When I close my teeth gently over the swell above the lace, she makes a broken little sound that goes straight to my dick.