Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 157(@250wpm)___ 131(@300wpm)
Everyone says karma's a bitch. Shit. I'm starting to believe it. All this fucking time I spent running, and now I'm the one chasing after a woman who's running scared.
And I'm not at all sure I'm going to catch her.
Chapter Four
Tempest
"This is ridiculous," I huff, glaring up at the ceiling as I toss and turn restlessly, the sheets tangling around my legs. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is Dalton's face hovering over mine. I feel his stubble scraping against my cheek and his heated breath against my ear as he growls for me to watch him. I feel his hands against my body, burning me up.
I've been in a constant state of desire since he touched me. No matter what I do, he's in my head, and I can't get him out again.
I fling the covers back with a huff and roll out of bed. Maybe splashing some cold water on my face will clear my head of the wicked man and his hold over me.
Halfway to the bathroom, someone taps on my door. I glance that way, rolling my eyes. Triton went out earlier with the brunette he met at the bar yesterday. If he's knocking now to tell me that he got laid, I may kill him. I don't need to know about his sex life.
I stomp to the door and peek through the peephole.
Dalton.
He's slouched against the doorframe, his head hanging low, broad shoulders slumped in defeat. Even through the tiny bit of glass, I can sense his turmoil. It radiates off him in waves, each one crashing into me like a rogue tide.
I'm unlatching the chain before I even have a chance to talk myself out of it. God help me, I'm weak when it comes to this man. I have no willpower or sense of self-preservation.
I see him and my brain simply stops functioning.
The door swings open beneath my hand, and Dalton lifts his head, his eyes hazels clashing with mine. They're bloodshot and glassy. The sharp scent of whiskey wafts from him, wrinkling my nose.
"Are you drunk?" I ask, suspicion heavy in my voice. I swear to God if he's here because he's drunk…
"Not nearly drunk enough," he mutters, his voice rough as he scrubs a hand down his face. His gaze rakes over me, hot and hungry. The way his wild eyes linger on me strips me bare, leaving me trembling.
Memories of his hands on my skin, his fingers skimming up my thighs, flash through my mind. I remember the scratch of his stubble against my throat as he marked me with his teeth, the way he groaned as I came all over his hand…
Before today—before him—no one had ever touched me, but he set my body on fire, consuming me. And I burned willingly.
God help me, I want to burn again. I ache for it, every of me starved for his touch, desperate to feel his hands on me…to stop thinking for just five minutes. But I can't give in to this…this madness between us.
Not when I know he'll never truly be mine.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hide the way my body reacts to his presence. "What are you doing here, Dalton?" I demand, my voice wavering slightly.
"Triton is your cousin."
"What?" I stare at him in confusion.
"He's your cousin, isn't he?" he asks, his expression intense. Maybe he isn't nearly drunk enough because that look…God, it's like he's trying to see into my soul.
"Of course he's my cousin. Why? What are you doing here?" We both know he didn't come here at midnight to ask about Triton.
He ignores my question, taking a step toward me. "Can I come in?"
"That's not a goo–" I start to protest, but he cuts me off.
"Please, baby," he rasps. There's something in his voice, a plea that unravels my defenses thread by thread.
I step back, holding the door open wider. He slips past me, the heat of his body searing into mine, his woodsy, masculine scent filling my head.
I bite my tongue, fighting against the whimper that rises in my throat, my fingers itching to touch, to taste.
He paces to the center of my room and stops, tension vibrating through his big frame. He's silent for a long moment, his back to me.
I close the door with a quiet click, my heart in my throat as I watch him. "Dalton, it's the middle of the night," I say.
He turns to face me as soon as the words leave my lips, his expression ravaged. "My parents were killed in a plane crash with my aunt and uncle when I was thirteen," he says abruptly, the words seemingly torn from his throat. painful. Just hearing them breaks my heart into pieces. "We were fighting before they left. I don't even fucking remember what I did. But I remember the last thing I said to them." His voice shakes. "I was supposed to go to New York with them, but they grounded me. So I told them that I hated them and I wished they were dead."