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“Technically, he’s Mr. Astor,”
“Fly safe tomorrow, okay? I won’t be there to haul you out through the emergency exit.”
On a scale of one to ten, that was a freaking twelve on the sexiest things a guy could do that weren’t sexual, which wasn’t helping my pulse settle.
“I don’t want hours. I want nights. Days. Weeks. I want to haul you into a room and lock us away until I know every inch of your body, taste everywhere you like to be kissed, explore every way to make you come, and then listen as your voice goes hoarse from screaming my name. That’s . . .”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m ridiculously hard to kill.”
he wielded an aura of fuck-around-and-find-out.
I’m pretty sure he’s more attracted to his phone than me.”
“Oh, Jeremy. Someone should have told you no a long time ago.”
then ignored the pulsing of my dick, which hadn’t given up hope that I’d change my mind.
“Twelve inches,”
“Not quite,”
“Twelve inches is the maximum distance you’re allowed to be from me while we’re here.”
“He likes cookies and cream ice cream.”
“Ms. Astor is loath to leave until her sister, also Ms. Astor, has, and stubbornness seems to be a genetic trait in that family, and Serena’s interpreter’s visa isn’t approved yet.”
“If I have to, yes. You have no idea the lengths I will go to in order to keep you safe.”
“And if she’s not here in twenty-four hours, will you agree to stop being a general pain in the ass and fighting me about leaving?”
“Never mind, I already know who let you in.”
I won’t be able to think, to focus, to walk so much as twelve feet away from you if I don’t know you’re headed to safety.
You’re not your dad. You’re never going to be your dad. But still . . . you need the help. You should probably figure out what to do with that farm of yours.”