Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I moan. I can’t help it. He chuckles against my lips before pulling back. “You’re a good kisser,” he rasps.
“Not so bad yourself.” And then we’re devouring each other’s mouths again, making out hardcore in this booth, and I don’t even flinch when I register the sound of catcalls over the music. Let everyone around us watch. Give them popcorn for all I care.
That girl in the bathroom last week, the one who praised Jake’s tongue, was right on the money. His tongue is incredible. Feels like heaven in my mouth. And his big, warm hand is now squeezing my thigh. I want to climb into his lap and maul him, but we’re at a bar, and we’re fully clothed. The fact that we’re in public is the only thing saving me from making a really stupid decision.
I pull away, breathing heavily. Jake’s gorgeous eyes peer back at me. A deep, dark green, like the jungle after a heavy rainfall. I can see why women go a little nutty for him.
I gulp down a hasty swig of cognac, then jerk when he takes the tumbler from my hand. Callused fingertips rub over my knuckles. I shiver.
“That was mine,” I accuse as he finishes my drink.
“We’ll order another round.”
“Probably not a good idea.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I clear my throat. Twice. “I should go.”
Jake nods. “Okay. Let me grab the check.”
I gesture to our empty glasses. “By the way, this counts as our date.”
He lets out a low, sexy laugh. “Dream on. This ain’t the date. This is still me being your fake boyfriend.”
“Oh really? Was that a fake make-out?”
“This isn’t the real date,” he says sternly. “But we should probably schedule that. When are you free?”
“Never.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Back-to-back nights? Is he nuts? I don’t even do that with the people I date for real. “Wow. You’re dying to see me again, huh?”
“Yes,” he admits, and my heart betrays me by skipping a beat. “So. Tomorrow?”
I cave like a house of cards. “Fine. But I’m not coming back to Boston. In one week I’ve spent enough time in this city to last me a lifetime.”
“I’ll pick somewhere closer to Hastings,” he assures me. “I’ll have Brooks’s car—should I come get you?”
“Absolutely not.” There’s no way I’m letting Jake show up on my father’s doorstep to pick me up for a date. “Unless you’re in the mood to get murdered.”
He chuckles knowingly. “I hoped you’d say no, but I’m a gentleman so I had to ask. I’ll pay your cab fare, though.”
“I don’t need your charity,” I mock.
“You just like being difficult, don’t ya?”
“Yup.” I rummage in my purse for my wallet.
“Want to make out some more before we go?” Jake’s tone is boyishly hopeful.
“Nope.”
His gaze turns devilish. “How about a blowjob?”
“Aw, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have a penis.”
Jake’s laughter heats my blood. It’s deep and husky and I want to record it so I can hear it whenever I want. Which is beyond creepy and insanely unsettling. I’m starting to enjoy this guy’s company, and that worries me. A lot.
“You got in late last night.” My father’s disapproval greets me when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. “Out partying, I suppose?”
I stick my head in the fridge and roll my eyes at a tub of margarine, because I can’t do it to his face. “I got home around midnight, Dad. On a Friday night. And I had to catch an eleven o’clock train in order for me to get back here for midnight. So really, I was done ‘partying’—” I turn so he can see the air quotes. “—at eleven. On a Friday night.”
“You’re too old to be giving me sass.”
“And I’m too old to be reprimanded about my social life. We talked about this. You said you wouldn’t lecture.”
“No, you talked about it. And I didn’t say a damn thing.” He’s not afraid to openly roll his eyes. He brushes by me in his plaid pants, wool socks, and pullover sweater with the Briar hockey logo on it.
He stops at the coffee maker, the fancy one Aunt Sheryl got him for Christmas last year. I’m surprised that he’s using it. Dad doesn’t care if a product has all the bells and whistles, unless it’s state-of-the-art hockey equipment. Otherwise he doesn’t give a shit.
“Want a cup?” he offers.
“No, thanks.” I hop onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. The legs are uneven, so it wobbles for a beat before finding its equilibrium. I open a mini yogurt and scarf it down, while Dad stands near the sink, waiting for his coffee to brew.
“You didn’t have to take the train,” he says gruffly. “You could’ve borrowed the Jeep.”
“Seriously? I’m allowed to drive the precious Jeep again? I thought I was banned after the mailbox incident.”