Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I blink up at him as he looms over me—big, broad, shirt slightly rumpled, jaw clenched. Eyes on me… as if he wants to devour me. Like it’s been driving him wild all morning.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, even though I already know. “The agent might come back.”
He braces one knee on the mattress, hand planted beside my hip, leaning in close—too close—until all I can see is him.
“You’re really going to move into this place and sleep in a room like this without knowing what it’s like to have me fuck you in it?”
Then.
He kisses me.
Hard. Intentional. Like he’s staking a claim. Like this model bedroom is the hill he’s willing to die on.
His hand slides to my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like he’s holding onto more than just me. Like he’s trying to anchor both of us to this moment before the real-world rushes back in.
I kiss him back.
How could I not?
I let out a quiet gasp when his thumb brushes the skin just under my shirt, and he groans like that sound alone might undo him.
“Poppy,” he murmurs against my lips. “Don’t do it. Don’t sign this lease.”
The words land between us like a live wire.
I look up at him, the feel of his whiskers still tingling against my cheeks as his warm hand moves under my shirt, thumb stroking above the waistband of my jeans.
“Poppy,” he says again, quieter this time. Like it hurts. Like saying my name is a full-body event. “Don’t do it.”
His mouth finds mine again—softer now. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite every stupid thing we haven’t said by kissing me just right.
His hand slips higher.
Over my ribs, up my side, every inch of skin lit up like a power line…
“Don’t move. I’ll miss you—the dog will miss you,” he breathes against my neck, voice thick and desperate. “Not yet. Stay.”
Stay.
Not: stay with me.
Just… stay.
As if I don’t move out of the house, none of this has to change.
His hand pauses beneath my bra, fingers flexing like he wants to say more with touch than he can with words.
I breathe out. “You’re making this really difficult.”
“I know, I know,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “I can’t believe you’re leaving because of logistics and it’s not the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had.”
“I didn’t think you’d care this much,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His brow furrows. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
Turner kisses me again, slower this time. Hot.
His palm glides over my boob. He squeezes—at the exact same time his tongue slides into my mouth and that’s when I make a sound I will deny to my grave…
The kind that gives me away.
Desire. Frustration.
“You’re killing me,” I breathe, dragging my mouth from his.
His eyes are hooded, cheeks flushed, voice wrecked. “Good.”
“You’re not allowed to be hot and emotionally manipulative. Pick one.”
“No,” he says, and kisses me again, rougher now, like he’s trying to undo every inch of distance I’ve tried to put between us.
I can feel how badly he doesn’t want this to end. The ache in his kiss. The way he presses me into the mattress, his dick straining against my thigh.
My breath catches. His mouth is still doing terrible, wonderful things to mine.
We are, without question, about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
And then—
A polite knock on the doorframe.
“Sorry to interrupt,” comes the smooth, chipper voice of the leasing agent, “but I have brochures if you’re still considering submitting an application.”
We freeze.
Turner’s hand stills under my shirt. My leg half-wrapped around his. Both of us flushed and breathing like we’ve just run a marathon with our mouths.
He doesn’t move immediately. Just lifts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide whether to fake his own death.
I twist my neck to see her.
She’s holding a stack of glossy pamphlets and wearing a smile so calm, so practiced, it deserves an award.
No raised brows. No judgment.
Just the smug professionalism of a woman who’s absolutely walked in on worse.
“I’ll, uh…” Turner clears his throat and eases off me, adjusting his shirt like it personally betrayed him. “We were, uh—”
“Testing the bed,” I offer quickly, cheeks on fire.
She nods. “Of course. Very popular feature.” The agent hands me the brochures. “You can take your time. Let me know if you have any questions. About the apartment.”
Turner doesn’t say anything. He exhales, long and heavy, running a hand through his hair like he wants to throw himself out the first-floor window.
We don’t speak the rest of the tour.
And when I get home, I text Nova.
Me: Do you have like 10 minutes for a mild spiral orrrr
Nova: Obviously. Call me.
So I do. I crawl into my bed—which smells like Turner’s laundry detergent and sex and cologne—and try not to cry while telling her everything.