Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
His lips were so close to hers he could taste the toothpaste on her breath. “Answer the question.”
“No. I mean, yes.” Her voice was angry and rushed, her dilated pupils resolutely locked on his. “I like sex, okay? I thought the attraction was mutual.”
A burst of lust ignited through his cock. He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his erection, grinding his hips. Nothing said I'm attracted to you like a thrusting boner.
But the tentative squeeze of her fingers sent his head spinning. With her mouth so close and wet from her breaths, he took her lips. It wasn't a gentle touch-and-tease kiss, either. He went for it, dominating her mouth, spreading it open with his jaw, and angling her head with a fist in her hair. His tongue chased hers, lashing and taking.
She didn't fight back, so he unsheathed his teeth, catching and slicing her lips. His pulse raced, and his lungs pumped. Jesus, he couldn't reach any deeper, and she met him stroke for stroke, bite for bloody bite.
Her taste was insufferably sweet, much like the fingers stroking his cock. Which reminded him of his position on her offer.
He released her, and the room stumbled to a dizzying standstill. They shared a suspended look, panting in unison. He stepped back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The answer is still ‘No’.”
She slapped a palm over her mouth, eyes closed and forehead pinched. Then she shot from the bed and ran out of the room, leaving a trail of messy footprints in her wake.
He scratched his jaw. Huh. Apparently, OCD-ness came second to Oh-God-he-rejected-me-ness.
Perhaps he should've assured her of her attractiveness with words.
Maybe he should wear a tutu and over-pluck his eyebrows while he was at it.
He crossed the room to the aquarium and dug out a cracked statue of a bronze woman missing her head. The marred scratches across the base were vicious, but the engraving was still legible.
Fitness Model World Championship
1st Place
Amber Rosenfeld
His mouth fell open, though he shouldn't have been surprised. Her body rocked some killer biceps, thighs, and calves, and God knew what lay beneath that dress. It was a rare thing to find a woman with a ten body paired with a ten face, but this fitness model was a hundred from head to toe. So when he pulled out a wad of sashes printed with Miss Tri County, Miss Heart of the USA, and Miss Texas, it wasn't shock that caught his breath. It was a very strong feeling of wonder, reverence, and something akin to fear.
There must've been fifty demolished tiaras and trophies in that tank. Why would she destroy something she'd worked so hard to earn? Or had someone else hurt them? Hurt her? The notion sent blood roaring through his ears, leaving him shaken, edgy, and, worst of all, heartsick.
The sudden urge to flee shuffled him back a step. He needed to shed these feelings, this room, her. The last time he involved his emotions, he got a blade across his face and a bullet in his shoulder. Hard to forget those lessons.
He dropped the sashes in the aquarium and strode toward the hall, not stopping until he heard muffled sniffles through the bathroom door. He braced an arm on the wall beside it.
Could he be the kind of guy who apologized? How about the guy who walked her mail down the driveway?
He pulled a toothpick from its holder in his pocket and stared at the white cotton of his socked feet. The heavy thump of his heart felt way too foreboding.
Thump noted and rejected. He slid the pick between his lips. Her sniveling didn't affect him. Nope. He backed away from the bathroom door, pretending he didn't feel the thump growing harder and faster with each step.
He wasn't her guy, and he sure as fuck didn't need more scars.
At the front door, he slipped on his sneakers and shifted the hood over his head.
He most definitely wasn't Zachary Kaufman, and the fuckwad would be back in three days to honor his Tuesday/Friday tradition.
Could her shipments wait until then? Would she attempt to walk them out that night? What if she had a seizure on the way?
He pressed his gloved fingers against his eyes. Not his goddamned problem. He opened the door and gripped it, fighting not to close it and return to her. Instead, he stepped beneath the somberness of a sleepy sky and slammed the door behind him with enough rattle to reach the bathroom.
The slam of the front door lurched Amber's stomach into a fit of cramps. Van was gone. Gone.
She dropped before the toilet and hung her head. Her mouth swelled with a burst of saliva, and she dry-heaved until her throat was raw. But the pain was nothing compared to the hot stabs of self-loathing perforating her insides.