Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
At this, he laughs. And I love that I made him do that.
“Couples kiss, Ryan. They touch.”
Yes, please. Sign me up for some of that lady’s choice, whatever that meant.
“Your turn.” My mind is a spaghetti mess of thoughts, and the second the words are out of my mouth, I remember he doesn’t share. On dates.
“Let me see,” he says, his mouth curling in one corner. Like the cat anticipating a juicy treat. “I have more siblings than is seemly.”
My expression must reflect my surprise.
“I blame the poor choice of TV shows in Ireland during the ’80s and ’90s.”
“Wow. Good for your parents!” Maybe he’s not telling the truth—why would he tell the truth?
“What a deviant you are, talking about my parents’ sex life.”
“I am not! It was you who—”
“You know, when we first met, I wouldn’t have believed you were the kind of girl who blushes at the drop of a hat.”
“I am not blushing! And if I am, it’s because you’re shameless.”
“Do you think my parents might be responsible for the field I’ve ended up in?” This he says with an air of I dare you to ask. “Not that I’m complaining about my chosen career.”
In my head, it’s my turn to make chicken noises. “I guess enjoying your job makes life easier,” I answer uncertainly.
I’ve never had an opinion of sex work. Or even sex workers. I mean, I guess it’s one of the oldest professions in the world, but if you’d asked me this morning if I’d pay for sex, the answer would’ve been heck no. Why pay when dick is only ever a swipe away? Not that I’m into that kind of dating life. But also, I guess not all dick is created equal. And not all dick owners are interested in anything more than getting their own rocks off.
I can see that making the choice—the choice to go pro—might be empowering. Like he said before, there could be an element of security in the decision. And with a man like Matt, there would be fun. Laughter. A genuineness of connection. And the kind of mind-blowing sex a girl would max out her credit card for.
Not that I’m considering . . .
No, I am not.
“Makes for happier individuals,” Matt replies enigmatically.
I have no issue believing he leaves a lot of women very happy. “What else?”
“I tolerate my friends. Mostly,” he adds with a humorous lilt. “I like to climb. Rocks, mostly. Food? I like food. All food. And I can cook, which is just as well, as I have a voracious appetite. In fact, right now, I’d eat you if you stood still long enough.”
My laughter is loud and genuine.
“Though I reckon I wouldn’t have to be hungry to nibble on you.”
I feel what he’s saying, even if I don’t fully understand it—feel it physically.
“As for the rest, I like beer and Irish whiskey, and I dress on the right.”
“Such quiet confidence.” I roll my eyes for effect and try very hard not to let my eyes fall there. I bet he’s abundantly blessed. “Anything else?”
“According to my ex, I’m rubbish at commitment.”
A slip from the vault? So much for keeping his private life just that, though I kind of see her point. I would have issues sharing him. “But just look at how you committed to this!” I sort of explode because the images that flash through my head are more than a little disconcerting.
“Or maybe I should just be committed.”
“You are not crazy for helping me out.” I’m the crazy one for thinking the things I’ve been thinking. “You’re nice.”
He pulls that unimpressed face again.
“You—you’re a gentleman!” A gentleman on the streets and a freak between the sheets. We’ll call that an educated guess. “Give me your phone,” I demand, holding out my hand. I need a distraction before I overheat. “I’ll call your ex and set her straight.”
His mouth curves as he takes my hand in his instead. “Thanks, but I’m sure that would go down like a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.”
“And that would be a problem?” I feel a little pang in my chest. “Because you want to get back with her?”
“It is her wedding day.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He puts our joined hands on his knee. “It’s just been a weird day.”
“Maybe a little weird,” I concede, forcing my gaze upward. A thin scar bisects his left brow, and I find myself wondering about the cause. “But you’ve rolled with the punches admirably, and for that I’m truly—”
“Grateful,” he finishes for me. Ungraciously. What is it with him and compliments?
“I am!” I insist.
“No need.” His words gruff, he rubs his hand over the darkening stubble on his jaw.
Why does the motion only serve to accentuate his lips? And how come I didn’t notice before how well shaped they are? Full and kissable, maybe even a little pouty right now.