Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Okay, definitely never had a chicken leg before.
The only chef who ever made me dinner was Darleen at the local Denny’s.
She’s waiting for me to judge, flipping her hair and pulling her mirror from her bag to check her reflection.
Still perfect, Rich Girl.
“What’s your favorite thing they’ve made?” I ask.
Her eyes slide my way, searching, but when she decides I don’t give a shit she’s got it all and I’ve got nothing, she answers, “I like all food, but sushi is probably my favorite at the moment.”
I nod and then shrug. “Never tried it.”
Her eyes bug out, but then she gives a sassy smile. “So does that mean next time it’s my turn to make you a dragon roll?”
I push the garbage into the bag at my feet and grip her by the hips, lifting and setting her on my lap. She spins, straddling me right here in the middle of the park, and I bring my hands around, making sure her skirt is covering her ass.
“There’s gonna be a next time, then?” Using my pinkie, I push her hair from her face, lifting my chin to meet her lips, but I only skim mine along her soft, pillowy ones.
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re a liar or not.”
“I’m no liar, Rich Girl.”
“Then where is the reward you promised me?”
My mouth curves slowly. “Someone’s been waiting.”
“Someone’s been busy.” She looks pointedly at the purple beneath my left eye. “Catfight?”
“Dog fight.”
Her lips quirk, but her gaze holds mine. She wants more.
“I run a fighting ring close to where I live. I find fighters, take bets, and solve problems.” I point to my eye. “This was a free shot I gave an asshole who thought he was tough.”
She nods, wiggling in my lap a bit, so I slide my hands up her thighs, stretching my fingers wide to see how much I can fit in my palms.
“Sounds illegal.”
“Only if you get caught.”
“Or if someone rats you out.”
“Songbirds get their voice boxes ripped out, Rich Girl. I don’t play.”
Her pupils grow larger and she reaches up, touching my lip ring with her thumb. “My life isn’t exactly straight and narrow either,” she admits, though it’s low and hesitant. Her gaze snaps to mine. “As in not at all. People who … sing in my world are fed to the sharks.”
She stares hard, studying my reaction, and I kinda get the feeling she’s trying to figure out if I knew that already.
I get her concerns more than she knows.
“Hard to trust outsiders, ain’t it?” I slide my hands along her ass beneath her skirt. More fancy clips and clasps locked tight to another G-string. “Never know who’s after you or who’s after you.”
She rubs her lips together. “Are you after me, Bastian Bishop?”
“Way I see it …” I lean forward, forcing her to latch on to my neck or fall back onto the concrete below. “I’ve already got you.”
Her attention falls to my lips, and she frowns, whispering, likely to herself more than me, “I think you might.”
“I do. You’ll see.” I focus on the exposed skin on her legs and the pleated uniform lying against it. “There’s something about this skirt.” I fist it between my fingers. “Kinda like it.”
“Of course you do,” she mocks. “It’s a common fantasy, one I would bet you’ve never found yourself living in.”
“Not exactly the crowd I hang around, so no, I haven’t, but …” Her ass sits on the roughness of my jeans, the strip of lace on her panties a useless form of protection. “I was in you, wasn’t I?”
“Doesn’t count.”
“No?”
“No.” Her grip on me tightens as she draws herself closer. “I had already dropped the skirt that night.”
Her long, soft fingers toy with the hair on the nape of my neck, and my eyes close as I think back.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It was the shoes for me then … and the legs, the ass, the hips, but that mouth and the sass that came from it? That pulled the trigger.”
She fights a smile. “You sure it wasn’t the knife throwing?”
“That too. Maybe even the eyes. I love me some green.”
“Don’t see much of that, do you?” She pops a brow like a brat.
I nod, owning it. “Your guess is right, Rich Girl. I’m nothing but a poor punk, but this punk made you come.”
“I think it was a fluke,” she sasses, but her voice is raspy and breathy. “You should prove it wasn’t.”
“Should I now?” I glide my thumb along her jaw, tipping her head a bit, and she does what I want.
She comes to me.
Her mouth finds mine, lips gliding along like silk against sand, soft against rough, parting, and my tongue breaks through, tangling with hers in long, slow strokes. Getting to know her mouth by feel, since last time was a fucking frenzy. Literally.
Her body hums, skin heating to the touch, and when I bite down on her bottom lip, she sighs.