Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I really need to keep my mouth busy today.
Maybe this toothbrush will save me. I jam it in my mouth and imitate her. Attacking my teeth as I brush so damn hard.
This is not us.
This is not real.
We don’t brush our teeth together in the morning and bicker as foreplay.
That’s it. I know how to stay the course and survive. But it’ll require some finesse. Good thing I’m an expert finesser.
Once she leaves the tiny bathroom and roots around in her suitcase, which I relocated to my room last night, I come up behind her, sliding a hand up her back just the way she likes, slow and seductive.
She shivers, then murmurs.
Over the last few days, I’ve learned some of the things she likes. I wish I could learn more. I wish I could help her discover new things she likes too. And, conversely, I wish I could unlearn so many things about her as well—that she wishes on fountains, that she hogs the bed, that she wants to choose better, that she loves to explore and lift up others, and to tell stories all day and into the night. And that she supports me, encourages me, and sees through me.
I don’t know what to do with this Hazel knowledge. All these facts and details are overflowing in my head, and there’s hardly room for them, yet I want to fill my brain with more, more, more.
I bring my lips to her ear, flick my tongue against the lobe. “I was a jerk just then,” I whisper. I need to apologize but it’ll also help my shut-my-mouth cause.
“You were, but you don’t scare me, Axel Huxley.”
My heart spins faster. I am so fucked.
“I shouldn’t have called you sweetheart,” I continue, and this time the nickname comes out tender, full of all the feelings for her.
She leans back against me, warm and eager. “Or say it like that instead,” she urges.
I need to escalate. Right fucking now. I shift gears, full speed ahead with dirty talk. “I don’t want to make out. I want to fuck you again.” I take a beat, then add, low and smoky, “With my tongue.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath, then she drops the blouse she just picked up. She leans back against me. “And you think I want that?”
She’s so fucking good at our games too, whether it’s bickering or banter, whether it’s one-upmanship or word play. She’s the perfect partner in crime, in games, in…everything.
“You do. So sit on my face, Hazel.”
A minute later, I’m lying on the bed, and she’s not hovering; she’s sitting, pressing, pushing. I love that she grinds against me shamelessly. My mouth is thoroughly occupied as I make her come hard.
Too bad it defeats my purpose.
Because when she flops next to me, running her fingers down my chest, I want to get closer. I want to tell her that she can come over every night in New York. Or I’ll go to her place. I don’t care where we are. I just want to be with her.
And on that never-going-to-happen thought, I need to get some coffee and eggs really fucking soon to shut me up for the next day.
At breakfast, the last-day-of-vacation mood blankets the group. Everyone moves with a little melancholy, a little wistfulness as we grab plates and pour coffees.
I don’t sit with Hazel, but when Bettencourt strides through the car, beelining for Amy, who looks his way with a trying to wipe the sex glow smile off her face, I can’t resist a glance at the fiery redhead I adore. Hazel gives me an I know what they did last night look. And I return it.
That gives me one more idea for how to make it through the next thirty minutes till we arrive in Copenhagen.
After we return from breakfast, we zip up bags, gather phones and books. We’re twenty minutes from Copenhagen, and I know how to make my wish come true.
We’ll talk about work the entire rest of the trip.
Just work. That is all.
Once she closes her suitcase and brushes one hand against the other like she’s saying that’s done, I beckon her with my finger.
I’m sitting on the tiny love seat by the window. It’s hard as stone, but I don’t care. The view is unbeatable as we roll toward the Danish capital. The view will keep me rooted in my cause.
“But the couch,” she says, a little whiny.
“Come here anyway.”
I figure she’ll sit next to me, but she surprises me and sits on my lap.
And that fries my brain. I catch the scent of her wildflower shampoo, and I’m done. I don’t want distance. I want to savor every last second with her.
I wrap my arms around her, nuzzle her neck, like a lovestruck fool taking his last hits. Then I let go, look out the window, and try to resist the too-fast, too-painful speed of my heart. I try so damn hard to talk about work, only work. “I had this fantasy the other night,” I begin.