Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I ease the door shut, not wanting to wake her.
Is Indie right? Does the world not care about a harden-souled man like me or the stolen child of a mother who was in over her head with the father? Do we have to play by rules that don’t mean a damn thing in our lives?
Indie’s wearing a T-shirt of mine, and hell if I know what’s on her bottom half. With my fucking luck, she’s not wearing anything but my T-shirt, which looks like it's swallowed her whole.
Why is she here? Fletcher comes home tomorrow.
I take a quick shower and emerge to the aroma of garlic and Indie pulling a plate out of the microwave.
“Milo, you need to go grocery shopping.”
I dry my hair with a towel while she lets her gaze slide across my bare chest, hypnotized, nostrils flaring while she inhales slowly.
This isn’t good. I’m fucked.
She clears her throat and offers a nervous smile while her eyes flit upward to my face. “I uh … brought you some of the pasta Micah left in the fridge.”
“Micah makes something besides steak?” I narrow an eye at her.
She grins. “Yes. For me, he makes pasta.”
I sit at the table when she sets the plate on it. “What happened to your clothes? I think that’s my shirt?” I twirl the pasta around the fork.
Indie stands a foot away from me, her toes pointed inward, her bare legs on full display, and her hands folded quite innocently behind her back. “I wanted to wear your shirt.”
“Because?” I take a slow bite, attempting to act unaffected by her half-naked state. I’m anything but unaffected.
“It smells like you.”
I chuckle. “Sweat?”
“Leather, coffee, and cinnamon.” She grabs the neck of the shirt and pulls it to her nose. My gaze drops to the extra two inches of legs she’s showing me.
Dead.
That will be my physical state if I touch her again. Fletcher will make sure I don’t live to see another day.
Clearing my throat, I return my gaze to her face, her pink cheeks and cherry lips. “You think I smell like leather, coffee, and cinnamon?”
“Mmm …” She nods, wetting her lips. “I do.”
Stop. She has to stop right now.
“I let Benton know I’m no longer interested in seeing him.”
“Whatever you want, Indie.” I focus on the pasta. It’s thinner than spaghetti.
“Whatever I want?” She takes a step closer until her legs touch the side of my chair.
“It’s a figure of speech.” I lick the sauce from the corner of my mouth.
She curls her blond hair behind her ear on one side before wedging between me and the table, sitting on one of my legs with her back to me. Lavender overtakes the aroma of garlic. It’s the way the main house smelled when Ruthie was alive.
I set my fork down and hold my hands away, far away, so I don’t touch her. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry again.” She pinches a piece of pasta between her fingers and slurps it into her mouth while her toes brush the top of my bare foot. Turning her head, she grins at me, upending my carefully constructed wall of control.
I zero in on her lips, and her smile fades before she rubs them together. I wanna kiss them so fucking badly.
Her hand reaches for mine, guiding it to her knee. We stare at each other, sharing an occasional slow blink.
Not a word.
Barely a breath falls between us.
She swallows when my hand slides an inch or two up her silky inner thigh. I might as well load the gun and hand it to Fletcher. Do I have a death wish?
Maybe.
All I can hear is the blood in my ears, pulsing, rushing, and racing to keep up with my heart.
“Keep going,” Indie whispers before holding her breath when my hand remains idle on her thigh.
There’s a dagger of guilt twisting into my conscience, but even that doesn’t stop my hand. The tips of my fingers skate along the crotch of her underwear.
Her breathing becomes a little ragged.
My fingers bend, dragging my fingertips over the thin cotton, feeling the outline of her flesh beneath it, the thin material quickly becoming wet to the touch.
She closes her eyes while her hand grips my other leg. I curl my fingers to cup her, and her fingernails dig into my leg while her pelvis makes a tiny jerk.
Fuck … I’m torturing myself.
I rub her with the heel of my hand several times, pulling more breaths from her open mouth, each one harsher than the previous one. Her toes reach for the floor, lifting herself toward my touch; her other hand grips the table's edge.
I’m so fucking mesmerized by her.
Her slow blinking eyes.
Her lower body moving in tiny waves with my touch.
Her teeth trapping her lower lip just before she turns and drops her chin to watch my hand between her spread legs.