Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Especially when he throws seven touchdowns, one being a seventy-two-yard bomb that had the whole stadium losing its mind. No one even saw the receiver get loose and head for the end zone, but Dawson did. They won the game, sending Vanderbilt home with their tails between their legs.
It was freaking awesome.
I thought everyone would leave then, but we don’t. We eat, we drink, and we shoot the shit. I’m deep in a heated debate with Jude and Jayden about how Tampa Bay will kick the Assassins’ ass, with Jace on my side, when the room erupts in cheers.
I look up, and there he is.
I have seen Dawson in a jersey for hockey and for football, in athletic clothes, in nice clothes, and in nothing at all.
Dawson Sinclair in a dark blue suit that is tailored to his thighs and shoulders…that is a sight everyone should experience once in their lives. The light blue button-up shirt makes his eyes look greener, and the slutty little gold chain around his neck is downright sinful. He looks good, real damn good, and breathing isn’t an option as I take him in.
But then I notice he’s ignoring everyone and coming right for me.
And apparently thinking isn’t happening either, because I let him take me in his arms in front of his whole family and mine before he covers my mouth in a lusty and not-PG-13 kiss. His tongue strokes mine before I smile and pull back, giving him a sharp look.
But Dawson, he’s beaming.
“So, what did you think?”
His fingers move along the top of my jeans, under my sweatshirt, and I lean into his chest, wanting to be closer. “I think you’re insanely talented.”
Dawson squeezes my hips, giving me an expectant look. “So, which is it? Hockey or football?”
I know this matters to him. I can see it in his eyes, and while I can tell him all day which to choose, I won’t. I reach up, cupping his jaw, loving the feel of his beard against my palm as I say proudly, “You.”
His smile falls a bit, adoration burning in his eyes. “Me?”
“Just you. I choose what you choose.”
He leans in, his forehead pressing to mine, and his eyes search mine. I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and it’s as if he wants to say something, but then he exhales. “But if you had the choice, it’d be hockey?”
I grin. “All day.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Dawson
If you had told me four months ago that I’d be in nothing but a silk robe and boxers, with my girlfriend sitting in my lap as she gives me a manicure, I’d have told you you’d lost your damn mind.
But here I am.
In her bed, as she focuses very intently on my nails. I don’t think I need a manicure, but she insists I do. I don’t mind, though. I love how she wrinkles her nose as she picks and trims my nails and something called a cuticle. I have no clue what it is, but she’s going to town as I admire everything about her. I do this often, and each time, I find something new I love about her. Today, it’s the fact that her hair doesn’t all curl the same way. Some curls go in and some go out, but somehow they lock together to make her hair all bouncy and beautiful.
I drink in her jaw, how her lip slips between her teeth as she concentrates. With each movement, her own silk robe opens a bit to show a nice little peek of her fantastic boobs. I want to grab them, suck them, but I refrain since she has been very pushy about clipping my nails.
Fuck, I love her.
“Are you sure I need this?” I ask, only because I want her to talk to me. While I love the comfortable silence, I love when she talks to me more. We talk about everything and nothing. The last month has been almost magical, and I find myself still not believing this is real. That I finally landed the girl of my dreams. The MVP of my life.
She gives me a side-eye, and I smile as she nods. “Yes. Don’t you get tired of me picking at your hangnails?”
No. “I don’t mind.”
She playfully rolls her eyes. “I know they get caught on your gloves.”
“They do,” I agree. “But if you like to pick at them, I want them.”
I love the way she snorts, shaking her head as she continues to clip them. Her hair is down, all wild curls ready to wash. I know her hair-washing schedule. Hell, I’ve even helped her with it. Did I think that one day I’d know how to do a curl wash? Nope, never thought I’d know anything about a woman the way I do Ambrosia, but here I am.
Loving every fucking second of it.