Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 88(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 59(@300wpm)
"Look who I found," Dawson drawls, breaking them apart.
Mom glances up, a bright smile overtaking her face. "Hey, sweetheart!"
They both rise, sweeping us into hugs.
"You look beautiful, Ava," Dennis says, smiling gently. I swear, the man is nothing like his son. He's so nice. There isn't a grumpy bone in his body. He kisses my cheek before releasing me to hug Dawson. "I'm glad you could make it, Son."
"Wouldn't miss it," Dawson murmurs, smirking at me. "You know I never pass up an opportunity to eat."
My knees aren't weak. I chose to sit. Really, I did.
Dawson sweeps my mom into a hug, making a big show of kissing her on the cheek. Her laughter rings out around us before she swats him, making him grin. "My dad taking good care of you, Janice? If not, the offer still stands."
"Sweet boy," she says, touching his cheek.
"What offer?"
"I offered to put my foot up his ass," Dawson says, sliding in next to me. Ordinarily, the banquette would be plenty big enough, but ordinarily didn't take into account his sheer size. He's pressed up against my side in one long, delicious line, crowding me up against the wall on my left.
I'm officially trapped between his body and the wall. And all I can think about is how I was trapped between his body and the fridge last night.
"There's no need for that," Mom says, oblivious to the sinful heaven I'm trying not to revel in over here. "Your dad is taking great care of me."
"Glad to hear it," Dawson murmurs.
"I ordered a bottle of wine for the table," Dennis announces.
The groan slips out before I can stop it.
Naturally, everyone turns to look at me.
"Sorry." I grimace. "Bad memories."
"Of wine?" Dawson cocks a brow.
"Girl's Night was Saturday," I explain. "We may have drunk too much."
"Ah." Dawson smirks at me. "What else did you do?"
"Nothing much," I practically squeak. Is there a world where I tell him that I plucked petals from a flower and played MASH while trying to figure out if I had a chance in hell with him? Absolutely not. I'd rather die.
"Uh-huh." His hand lands on my thigh.
I jump, jostling the place setting in front of me.
"My bad," I mutter, reaching beneath the table to shove his hand away. That lasts for all of two seconds before it's back on my thigh, creeping higher.
I'm going to kill him. Murder and maim and…Oh God. His hand is between my thighs. Our parents are across from us.
Send. Help.
Help does not come. I might, though.
This is going to be a long, long night.
I'm not wrong.
Dawson spends precisely all of dinner toying with me. One minute, his hand is between my thighs, pressing against my sex.
The next, he's using it to illustrate a point in a story. What story?
I don't fucking know!
It's hard to keep track when I'm trying not to have a shattering orgasm in front of my mother, my new stepfather, and approximately ninety of LA's upper echelon.
I'm going to murder him. I mean, I'll probably ride him to completion first. But he's definitely dying for this.
There is nothing discreet about the way I'm gripping the goddamn banquette like I'm trying not to lose my mind. And there is absolutely no way my mom hasn't heard me whimper at least twice.
My only saving grace is that she's so wrapped up in Dennis that she hasn't noticed my slow unraveling yet. At least, not until Dawson slips his hand between my legs again and I groan.
I actually fucking groan. At dinner. With our parents.
He's dying a slow, horrible death.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Mom asks. "You look flushed."
"No," I croak, my nails digging into the back of Dawson's hand. "I'm not feeling well."
The bastard beside me has the actual audacity to place his hand against my forehead like he's checking me for fever. "Hmm," he murmurs, his eyes glinting. "You feel a little hot, Half Pint."
A little hot? I feel a little hot?
His thumb presses against my clit through my panties. "Maybe I should take you home. You may be getting something."
"I can take care of myself," I grumble, acutely aware of the way my mom is watching me now.
"Nonsense," she says. "Let Dawson take you home, dear."
I see the Universe is still conspiring against me. Awesome.
"Yes, let Dawson take you," he says, and I narrow my eyes at him. He just gives me an innocent look, but we both know what he meant. He's being evil on purpose.
Well, two can play this game.
"Fine," I say sweetly. "Dawson can drive me. And then I'll just call my neighbor if I need anything. He's such an amazing man. I'm sure he'll be happy to help take care of me."
Dawson's eyes narrow, turning this unholy possessive shade of hazel. His lips compress into a tight, unimpressed line. I almost laugh out loud. Even though he knows my neighbor is ninety and I have no interest in him, he's still jealous.