Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) by Mira Gibson Read Free Book Online Page B

of those things.
    Instead, she popped off the couch and padded away into her kitchen. The sight of her naked from behind was beautiful. When she returned with a roll of paper towels, she merely tossed it at him, plucked her glass of wine off the floor, and drained it from where she stood, nude and absolutely gorgeous beside the sculpture that would one day hold his likeness.
    After he cleaned himself up, she said, “Leave it on the floor, I’ll get it later.” He obeyed, dropping the balled paper towels. “We have forty minutes.”
    He realized he was grinning, but then it dawned on him she was implying there was plenty of time for her to work, not rest and fuck again. Not that he was disappointed, staring at her for the next forty minutes while she worked in the nude would give him more than enough material to file away in his spank-bank. But all told, if he was being completely honest with himself, though they had just climaxed together, he was already praying for round two.
    Despite this, he was committed to being well behaved. He said nothing and was sure to keep still, as she molded her sculpture, working with steadfast concentration, which he found just as sexy if not more so than having witnessed her orgasm with his dick inside her.
    Soon the hour came to a close and she suggested he dress himself, though it sounded like an order.
    He quirked a smile and began pulling his jeans up, stepping into his boots a second later. After he got his shirt on then his jacket and skullcap, he neared her, the craving to hold her naked body in his arms surging through him stronger than an instinct.
    Before he reached her, she threaded her arms through the sleeves of her thin cardigan, not having bothered with her tank top. The lacy material draped down over her breasts, but only made her appear more desirable. And her vagina, the light dusting of pubic hair over it, seemed to call to him. He wanted to drop to his knees and dive in, licking and sucking and making her come on his mouth, but Hunter wanted her to beg for it. He didn’t want to have to ask.
    But she didn’t.
    “I can’t walk you out,” she said coyly, quickly glimpsing down at her breasts and the stark nudity below. “But I’ll walk you to the door.”
    When they reached it and Greer unlocked the dead bolt and thrust it open a crack, he asked, “Can I get your number?”
    “I really have everything I need,” she said, but her tone betrayed her.
    He could tell she was just as invested in whatever this was destined to become.
    “There’s no reason to close the door on this,” he whispered. “If I made you feel good, and I’m fairly certain I did, then I’m an option, right? It’s good to keep your options open.”
    She narrowed her eyes and smiled as if debating then before he knew it, she was reciting her cell number and he was scrambling to record it in his i-Phone.
    As soon as he had it, she urged him out the door and shut it, Hunter never having asked for a kiss he so desperately wanted.
    Shaking it off, he padded down the stairs, rounded out the door, and as soon as he descended the stoop, he passed through the wrought-iron gate.
    The eight-block walk home to Humboldt Street woke him up. The air was crisp and at one in the afternoon the sun had a sharp orange cast that lit up Bushwick, its dive bars and coffee shops, the sidewalk cafes that were too stubborn to take in their outdoor tables even though the temperature had been dropping with each passing day.
    When he reached his apartment, he found his friend, Aidan Marks waiting at the steel door.
    “What’s up, man,” said Aidan, folding his arms against a gust of wind blowing up the street.
    “You going to explain?” Hunter wasn’t pleased. He hated being out of the loop.
    “You going to let me in?”
    At 6’3” with a boxer’s stature, Aidan was beyond intimidating, but only to those who didn’t know him. Half black and half Puerto Rican, he had received countless grants and awards