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“I like the way youeat.”
I didnotjust say that!Yes, yes you fucking did.
“You can’t say things like that if you don’t want me to carry you to the shower and bang you so hard against the tile wall, I’ll have to buy you a donut pillow to sit on for the next week.”
A shudder courses through me violently, and god help me, I hide it as best I can. But Aleck is a lion, a blood thirsty lion who can smell fear and lust, and I’m locked in his sights. He knows I’m on shaky ground. He knows my dedication to going no further with thisthingwe’ve started is weak.
“I-I already showered,” my only retort.
I already showered?I’m as good as dead.
Aleck laughs, then unbraids his legs from mine, and stands up. With every step he takes, Ifeelhim getting further and further away and I don’t like it.
“I’m going to shower.” He smirks, then grabs his phone and starts toward the hallway. “Aloneapparently. Don’t eat my egg whites if I’m not back in time.”
I snort a laugh. “No chance of that happening. Just don’t ask me to save you any ice cream.”
“No need. I got enough sweets last night when I ate your pussy,” he calls over his shoulder from the hallway before shutting the bathroom door.
Jane Austen’s ghost, help me.
THIRTEEN
ALECK
Pushing the door open for Winter, we enter Candlelit Hall, ready to meet Preston and Sondra’s photographer. The Hall is currently set up for another wedding, which, if I’m being honest, is fuckinghideous. Everything is drenched in pink. Deep pink tablecloths, soft pink covered chairs, pink lace fabrics so light they’re almost white draped over everything. Pink, pink, fucking pink.
It’s disgusting.
The only redeeming accent of this wedding are the bouquets of pink roses on each table. Something about the newly budding flowers in such a soft shade of blush reminds me of Winter’s beautiful little pussy.
I’m not the most romantic man in the world, and I rarely give a cunt I’ve already had a second thought, but Winter’s hasn’t left the vicinity of my mind since my face was buried so deep in it I think I suffocated and died, then came back to life with an obsession for her taste. Now I don’t just want to hit it and quit it, I want to hit it and keep hitting it until my dick falls off.
Hey, maybe I’m growing as a person—or—maybe it’s because I haven’t actuallyhadWinter yet. Not in the biblical sense. Which is quite the alarming realization, isn’t it? I haven’t evenhadWinter, and I’m already obsessively thinking about her. Comparing her pussy to bouquets of flowers… I’m thinking about her pussy so much, I’m actuallybecomingone.
Either way, I have to push the thought from my mind before I go full-mast seconds before meeting the photographer.
Admittedly, Winter has grown on me. She doesn’t deserve my usual detached treatment, even if I am honest and upfront about my intentions. And even if I was willing to break my no repeat rule for her, this will have to end the minute the wedding is over, anyway. Which is why I had little else to say when she said we were done.
No skin off my ass. I’ll just have to distract my dick long enough to get through this wedding. I’ll stand behind our agreement ofno women in the suitebecause I never slide back on a deal, but this is a big resort and I’m not above exhibitionism—as long as it’s healthy and consensual.
“Maybe they’re outside. The Veranda is so beautiful. Of course, maybe not smothered in all this pink.” Winter crinkles her cute little nose.
“What would your wedding look like?” I ask as we weave slowly through the tables, making our way to the Veranda.
“I don’t know that I’ll ever get married, but certainly notthis.”
Curiosity gets the best of me. “Why won’t you ever get married?”
Is it because your ex proved what you should have already known; humans are shit and you should trust no one?
“Um, I don’t know.” She gives me a glimpse of those doe eyes over her shoulder. “Maybe because humans are shit.”
Ha!Winter Sommers, get out of my head, you cute little vixen. If she didn’t keep me suspended in a constant state of rage induced coma, I might think she was my soulmate. Too bad the former is true.
Winter pushes the French doors open to the Veranda and steps out into a scene as hideous as the one inside. Pink fabrics draped over every chair, wrapped around every pillar holding giant vases of Winter’s pussy flowers. And the pergola—holy shit, the pergola—every inch has been wrapped in darkandlight pink tulle.
My mother—the retired interior designer—would have this place demolished on sight.
