Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Farren is quiet as she puts her boots on and then straightens to meet my eyes. I see a confidence in there that tells me she’s still retaining a little control.
Stepping into me, she puts a hand on my chest and goes to her tiptoes, nuzzling her nose into my neck. “I think I’m going to like strutting around with my wet panties tonight. And I’m glad that will please you.” She pulls back, looks at me soberly with a hand to my cheek. “Just promise you won’t fall in love with me.”
My first inclination is to scoff at such a thought, but I can see how serious she is about this. I attempt to lighten the mood. “Relax, Abrams. I’m well aware that this is just sex.”
“Fucking phenomenal sex,” she clarifies.
“That it is. Now let’s go out there and act normal. And I’m driving you home to your brother’s tonight. I’m not drinking any more so feel free to drink all you want.”
“Hmm,” she says, considering the offer. “I might just do that. Of course, you know I don’t need to be inebriated to give you a blow job on the way home tonight, right?”
I groan at the thought, knowing that Farren is just the type who would try to suck me off while I was driving and wouldn’t need a drop of alcohol to go there. “Probably not going to say no to that,” I reply.
“No, I don’t imagine you would.”
She goes back to her tiptoes and plants another kiss on my cheek and then turns for the door.
CHAPTER 8
Farren
I wake to the muffled hum of voices drifting down the hallway to my room. The smell of fresh coffee wafts under the door, and I groan, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I roll over to check my phone on the nightstand. No missed calls, no texts, but who exactly did I think would be texting?
I swear I’m not disappointed there’s not something from North.
Rafferty and Tempe are awake, their easy laughter filtering through the condo. They sound good together, like they’ve found their rhythm, and for once, the thought doesn’t make me roll my eyes. Instead, it makes me smile. My brother deserves this kind of happiness even if it’s not something I’m interested in.
I stretch out under the covers, my body aching in all the right ways. Last night was something else. North took me home after we left Stevie’s, as promised, but not before we’d played darts and pool with the others. I couldn’t help but watch him—how he moved, how he smiled, the way he pulled people into his orbit like it was effortless. He’s attractive on a cellular level without even trying, and I hate how much I liked it.
North’s so different from me. I’m sharp edges and hard walls. He’s warm. Easygoing. But not in a way that feels false or shallow. It became clear last night, watching him be himself that he’s deep-down genuine. The kind of guy who helps a stranger without a second thought and operates with zero pretense.
And I’m starting to like him.
That realization sends a prickle of unease through me, and I shake it off. It’s just sex, I remind myself. Fun, meaningless, incredibly satisfying sex. That’s all it is. That’s all I want it to be.
I reach for my phone again, and as if conjured by my thoughts, it buzzes in my hand. My heart does a ridiculous little leap before I can tamp it down.
It’s North.
Of course, it’s North.
The text is simple, just a picture of his front yard blanketed in fresh snow. Do you want to build a snowman? Come out and play with me today.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Play? In the snow? Like we’re kids again? It’s ridiculous. Silly. Completely off-brand for me.
Has nothing to do with sex.
For a split second, I picture it—running around like a maniac, pelting North with snowballs, laughing until my sides hurt. It’s kind of appealing. But the idea twists something in me that I’m not ready to face.
That kind of carefree intimacy feels dangerous, like it could unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to keep locked down.
I shake my head and type back something safer. I can come over, but I’d rather spend it in bed.
His reply is instant. Come on over. The roads are clear.
My stomach does another annoying flip. I toss my phone aside and stare at the ceiling. What the hell am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t play. I don’t let myself get swept up in wonder or possibility. But I can’t deny the pull to see him again. To have his hands on me, his body over mine, that sense of freedom he makes me feel.
I swing my legs out of bed, shoving my hesitation aside. A quick shower later, I’m dressed in jeans, a warm sweater, and my favorite outdoor boots. My winter parka hangs over my arm as I step into the kitchen where Rafferty and Tempe are sitting at the table, mugs of coffee steaming between them.