Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Instead of running for my life, I’m compelled to stay, to seize the attraction between us with both hands and hold it close. I want to foster it and mold it into something deeper, stronger, and longer-lasting than a make-out session in a pickup truck.
I want this man at a level that disregards logic, self-preservation, and mental health.
“You need to eat.” He opens the door and unfolds his powerful body from the truck. “And Maybe…” He grips my hand and helps me out. “Silence that noise in your head.”
“I get the feeling everything you do is a ploy to distract me.” I follow him into the house, my fingers held prisoner in the unbending shackle of his.
Without comment, he leads me into the kitchen and points to a chair at the table.
I sit as he ambles toward the fridge. The tight fit of denim across his ass, the thick muscles flexing along either side of his spine, the thin shirt that cleaves to his massive torso and reveals every chiseled dip and indention beneath—all of it holds me in a trance.
There’s something so intrinsic and captivating about the way he moves. I can actually see his strength flowing beneath all that golden skin. Even the taut cords in his neck add to his appeal as he ducks his head into the fridge and removes a plate of hamburger patties. If he would only lift his shirt so I can properly ogle his tapered waist and sculpted abs.
To think, I slept against all that mouthwatering virility last night. God help me, I want more. More closeness. More kissing. More nights.
There I am again. Distracted.
I’m no closer to finding answers than I was nine days ago. He’s definitely distracting me, probably on purpose, and I’m letting him. Because he’s holding this shiny, rare gift in front of me, this opportunity to experience the grittier side of pleasure at the hands of someone who’s mastered the art of delivering it.
It’s risky. I’m already losing myself in this gorgeous, overbearing, mysterious man. Yet I feel the justification of it down to the kernel of my soul. If I don’t explore this, the chance will slip away and I’ll never know if it was a risk worth taking.
When dinner is ready, Jake and Conor join us. As the three of them inhale burgers and oven-baked French fries, I eat the spinach salad Jarret prepared for me with beets and walnuts.
Between hurried bites, they manage a conversation about today’s visit at the prison and their concerns for Lorne’s mental wellbeing.
I suspect Lorne is the glue that holds them shoulder to shoulder, moving forward as one. He’s not physically here, but he’s always in their thoughts. The depth in which they miss him blackens their voices, etches their faces, and stiffens the air. But they endure this ache together and seem stronger as a result.
As an outsider, I’m content to listen without speaking. That said, I feel a twinge of envy for the bond they share. They know one another so well they don’t need words. Instead, they rely on the familiarity of body language and eye contact to transmit the colors of their thoughts.
I find myself collecting the nuances of their expressions and mannerisms to piece together what they’re not saying. In the gloom of Lorne’s absence, one would expect sadness to radiate off them. It’s there, but they also project feelings of hope, anticipation, and unbreakable unity. The energy between them is galvanizing.
After dinner, I clear the table and decline Conor’s offer to help me. She and Jake already put in a long day in the fields, and I want to earn my keep, not leech off their generosity.
They head to their room, and I stand at the sink, finishing up the dishes, lost in thought.
A few minutes later, I sense him. Footsteps creaking the floorboards, heat at my back, breath against my neck, he closes in and traps me between the sink and the force of his presence.
“Place your hands on the counter.” The rumbling authority in his voice shivers through me, spurring me to obey.
When I do, a satisfied sound reverberates through him. He dips his head and puts his mouth against my neck, his lips gliding along my prickling skin, heating, teasing, tasting. My knees tremble, and he grips my waist, guiding my backside to his groin and letting me feel the swell of his hunger.
I drop my head back with a sigh as his tongue travels along my throat. Every lick is a brand of intent, every groan an assertion of his need. My mind gives way to instinct and gluttony, fanning flames that have less to do with sex and more to do with my longing for a connection with him.
The hands on my waist shift, caressing my hipbones through the dress. They inch higher, over my stomach, my ribs, and pause to cup my braless breasts.