Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
“Good night, Frankie. Sweet dreams.”
My gaze stays on him as he jogs down the four steps that take him back to his sleek black car. He slides behind the steering wheel and turns to me, motioning for me to go inside. With a smile, I do just that, realizing I can’t hear his electric car pulling away.
I’m so fucking giddy as I push the door closed, I can’t stand it. My smile is so wide that my cheeks ache, but I temper my glee with a big dose of reality. I’m a broke-ass homicide detective, a cop, and he’s rich and famous, plus a legit genius. We have nothing in common.
Nothing at all.
“Except for sizzling chemistry,” I say, because it feels like a key factor. “He’s probably just being nice,” I say to myself because that’s what rich guys do. They’re either ruthless or too kind, too nice, to stay on the right side of the law.
My fingertips brush against my forehead, thinking about the kiss because there was nothing nice about that kiss. It was an intense forehead kiss, and it surprised me. Nothing ever surprises me. Rarely, anyway.
I wonder what else Mr. Wolfe has up his sleeve.
I bet Google knows.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Damien
Waiting.
This is the way you play the game. And I should know. I invented the freakin’ game.
Last night, after dropping Francesca off on her doorstep and teasing her with a forehead kiss, I spent too many hours watching her.
My head hit the pillow to thoughts of her, and when I wake up the morning after, she’s the first thing on my mind. For the first time in too damn long, my thoughts aren’t about Olivia or the work I’m doing to help her.
I’m not thinking about revenge or the next name on my list. It’s just Francesca, and the image I carry with me is the desire that swam in her eyes last night as she looked up at me, hoping I would kiss her.
I really fucking wanted to.
But the time isn’t right. Not yet. For me to have what I want—exactly how I want it—I need to do everything the right way. And that means waiting.
And watching.
But can I wait? That is the question now.
I grow hard watching Francesca go about her weekend tasks, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m watching her. She wakes up and goes down to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, still wearing the checkered boxer shorts and plain white tank top she sleeps in.
Her sleepwear shows off long, well-muscled thighs and calves, sculpted arms and narrow waist that speaks of a woman who takes care of herself. My mouth waters to get up close and personal with the pretty detective.
Her nipples poke at the cotton of her tank top, and I can’t stop staring at them. I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’ll make her moan and scratch her nails down my back. Her nipples are always so fucking hard, tempting and teasing like they’re begging me to pull them into my mouth and suck as hard as she can stand it.
Even as she scrambles eggs in a bowl while the coffee brews, her tits are jiggling behind the tank top. “I’ll bet they’re sweet like ripe summer cherries. I bet those nipples are as sweet as the rest of you, aren’t they kitten?” I imagine she tastes like hot salty honey with a hint of caramel.
All morning, I’m rock-hard watching Francesca…err…Frankie putter around the house. She eats breakfast before she gets up to clean the kitchen and then the living room. Her home is spotless, so really, she’s just straightening and dusting. As I watch her engaging in mundane tasks, I vow to get her a housekeeper of her own.
A woman like Frankie is too good, too beautiful, and entirely too fucking smart to waste precious hours cleaning. She should be chasing down criminals like me, keeping the good citizens of Los Angeles safe, not dusting.
I switch screens when she heads upstairs to the shower but a quick call from Jess distracts me from watching Frankie in the shower. Dammit. I listen to my assistant with half an ear, my eyes scanning through screens until I find Frankie again. This time, she’s wearing nothing but a towel as she steps into her bedroom.
I can’t look away from her, her gorgeous tits or the way she lets the towel drop to her feet, almost as if she knows I’m watching. The thought of her putting on a show, thinking she’s alone, has me rock hard.
I wish I could hear her thoughts in this moment—is she thinking about me? Does she know how much I want her? After she moisturizes her body, she pulls the purple negligee from her dresser drawer and slides it on, the silky fabric clinging to her curves.