Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Curve of her back.
Slim waist.
Birthmark above her waistband.
“Is this all it takes to turn you on?” Nova laughs.
“Apparently.”
Nova recovers with a shaky laugh, but there’s a flush crawling up her throat now, blooming across her cheeks like maybe she’s feeling the heat, too.
“So I was thinking…” she begins, sliding the box back into position.
“Yeah?”
We wander farther down the aisle, side by side now. Her shoulder bumps mine lightly as she reaches for a jar of sauce, turning it to study the nutritional content.
She sets it down. Turns to face me. “That we pick out ingredients and go back to my place. To cook?”
Twist my arm.
“Totally. I’m starving already.”
Nova bites her lip and studies the shelves, tapping her forefinger in the center of her chin.
“What about…” she muses, scanning rows of jars and boxes and grabbing hold of spaghetti. “You can’t go wrong with carbonara. It’s delicious, it's simple—it has got bacon.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Everyone does pasta. It’s the food equivalent of sweatpants.”
She laughs at how dumb I sound. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to sous-vide something tonight, Chef?”
I laugh, too. “No, I just think we can do better than noodles.” I think for a few moments. “I vote creamy lemon chicken. Thoughts?”
“Ooh. With roasted fingerling potatoes?” she asks, eyes lighting up.
“One thousand percent. And asparagus because we’re classy.”
We make our way to the veggie aisle, where the produce is glowing under too-bright lights, and mist curls off the lettuce like we’ve stepped into a rainforest. Nova heads straight for the potatoes, lifting a bag of fingerlings with the reverence of someone who’s watched way too many cooking shows.
“These good?” she asks, holding them up.
“Perfect.”
She tosses the potatoes into the cart and heads for the asparagus, fingers grazing stalks like she’s testing for freshness, every touch has me staring at her hands.
Fingernails.
Her hands are delicate.
Not hard and calloused like mine, and I wonder how they’d feel grazing my stomach…or straying into the waistband of my boxers…
She catches me looking. “You gonna help or just stand there?”
I blink at her. “Sorry.”
“You’re acting weird,” she says, scooching around me to access the giant display of lemons. “Stop it.”
I step aside—barely—my pulse somewhere in my ears as she leans in to grab a lemon. Her boobs brush my arm, intentional or maybe completely accidental I do not know— I swear something short-circuits in my brain anyway.
She straightens slowly, palming the lemon over in her hand before glancing up at me. “Are you doing this on purpose?”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like this is your first time being in a grocery store. This is a date—you should act like it.”
I swallow. Hard. “I am acting like it. I’m just—admiring how damn good you look next to citrus.”
“Hmph.” She drops the lemon into the cart and bumps her hip into mine again. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Now get it together, Ace. We still need garlic, chicken, and a bottle of wine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And just like that, we’re off again, side by side. The air between us charged with all the things we’re both already imagining but not willing to say out loud.
God damn this is fun…
We weave through the rest of the produce aisle like we’ve done this a hundred times before, grabbing what we need in an easy rhythm—shallots, garlic, a sprig of rosemary that she holds to her nose and inhales.
“Ahhh…” So good.
Her hand brushes mine when we reach for the same bottle of red wine; neither of us moves. We just stand here, holding the bottle together like a romantic game of tug-of-war.
“You like red?” I ask.
“I like what red does to people,” she whispers, her breath skimming my jaw.
My dick tingles, her breathy comment hitting me square in the chest when she doesn’t let go right away. Instead, her thumb traces the neck of the bottle—slow, deliberate—brushing my knuckles in the process. Her eyes flick up to mine, daring me to react.
I take the bottle from her, careful not to break the stare, and place it in the cart.
The rest in a blur—chicken, butter, a wedge of Parmesan.
When I reach past her to inspect the label on a carton of cream, my chest presses lightly into her back. Nova doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch.
If anything, she shifts just slightly and her ass grazes my pelvis. Wiggles, even. A barely-there grind that’s more suggestion than statement.
It shortens my breath.
“Stop it,” I mutter without conviction.
I’m weak.
So, so weak.
Nova bends to grab the carton of cream from a lower shelf in the refrigerator aisle and falters, my hand finds her waist to steady her.
Thumbs graze the bare skin where her tank rides up. Pause there, rubbing slow, deliberate circles along the dip of her waist. Up. Down. The skin there is soft, warm—so much softer than mine.
She stands, straightening with the cream in her hand.
Turns slowly.
Her face is close.
Real fuckin close.