Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
"Yes. Why?"
I hit the automatic button for the window and toss her phone.
"Ronan!" she shouts, lunging toward me too late to save it. "What are you doing? Are you insane?"
"They can be traced." I let the window up again, leaving her phone in pieces on the side of the highway. Now, she's mine. Fuck. I mean her attention is mine.
"You...you..." She flings herself back against the seat, so mad I'm surprised steam doesn't come rolling from her ears. "I can't believe you just did that. "
"We'll get you a new phone, songbird. Something that no one else has had their hands on." Preferably after I've had her all to myself for a few days because the more I think about having this girl in my space, the more I like it.
The longer I spend around her, the more I want her. She's fascinating to me. Not because of who she is—I don't give a fuck if she's a country musician or if she works a cash register at the gas station. There's just something in those eyes that captivates me, something that demands I protect her at all costs. That I claim her no matter what. It makes no goddamn sense to me.
I've never dated much. In fact, I can't remember the last time I went on a date. Chasing pussy was never something that interested me much. Too many one-night stands end up with lasting consequences, like kids that weren't planned. Doing the shit I did for the Army…well, the last thing I wanted was to get some random woman pregnant knowing I might leave a kid behind. So I kept my dick in my pants where he belonged. It was easy enough to do.
But the desire to touch Winter is damn near a compulsion at this point. I want my hands on her. I want in her space. I want to leave reminders of myself on her delectable body. Every time I look at her, fifteen competing desires war for dominance, urging me to take and claim and glut myself on her. It's fucking with my head because the last thing she needs right now is some asshole in her personal space, trying to lay claim to her. But that's precisely what I want to do anyway.
"What did you do for the Army?" she asks.
"Recon."
"Was it classified?"
"Almost always."
"Were you in charge?"
"I led a team."
She nods as if this answer satisfies her. "That explains so much," she mumbles, making me smile despite myself. "You're bossy and paranoid. What kind of recon did you do?"
"The classified kind."
She growls at me, making me smile again.
"You should do that more."
"Do what?" I ask, glancing from the road to her.
"Smile," she says. "You should smile more." She peeks up at me from beneath her lashes. "It looks good on you, Ronan."
"Haven't had much to smile about for a while, songbird," I admit, turning back to the road.
She sighs softly from beside me. A moment later, I feel her small hand slip into mine on the center console.
"Me either," she whispers.
"It's not much," I mutter, dragging a hand over my short hair as Winter wanders around the bedroom across the hall from mine. Compared to her place, this place is a hovel. It's a two-story Craftsman in the woods. There isn't much around but nature and silence. Her place is a McMansion in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Nashville, complete with a pool and a nice view of the city. But my place offers what hers doesn't. Safety.
"You haven't been home long," she says, glancing up at me from the stack of boxes in the corner.
"Just got moved in two weeks ago."
"You were deployed?" A faint smile dances at her lips. "Doing recon?"
"No. I was in California."
"I like California," she says, that sweet smile growing. "The ocean is always so peaceful to me. Standing on the beach staring into the immense vastness of it always puts things into perspective for me. Me and my problems seem small in comparison. " She laughs, brushing hair back from her face in an endearing, self-conscious gesture. "That probably seems silly."
"Not at all." I lean back against the wall, my arms crossed as I watch her wander around, examining everything in the room. There isn't much—a small desk, the bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. A bookcase in the corner holds a stack of old books that came with the house. Everything smells new and fresh, as if the oak furniture was freshly made when it was delivered.
"Were you stationed in California?"
"No." The word comes out harsher and more abrupt than I meant.
"I'm sorry." She glances at me over her shoulder, her lip caught between her teeth. "I didn't mean to pry."
Shit. Now she thinks she upset me.
"I was in a treatment program for PTSD, songbird," I say bluntly. Might as well get that shit out of the way now. I don't want her thinking she has to walk on eggshells around me or that she can't ask me questions. If she's going to live here, I want her to be comfortable. I want her to feel at home. I want…Christ Almighty, I want her.