Total pages in book: 17
Estimated words: 15117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 60(@250wpm)___ 50(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 60(@250wpm)___ 50(@300wpm)
“You cook?” I ask.
“Yes, it relaxes me.”
“Painting does that for me, too. I suck at cooking.” Well, at least I think I do. I never really had much of a kitchen to try things out with. My food is either fast food or whatever can be heated up. My mind flashes with images of me sitting in front of the window, painting, as Warren works in the kitchen making us dinner. My heart flutters. I push the thought away.
“I know other things that could get you to relax.” He puts the dish in the microwave. I roll my eyes though a tingle hits me between the legs, making me wriggle. He gives me a cocky smile like he knows what he just did to my body.
“Out with it.” He leans up against the counter across from me, his arms crossed over his massive chest. I look down at my hands in my lap.
“I’m homeless,” I finally admit. The room is quiet for so long that I finally look up. My eyes meet his.
“Not anymore.”
“You don’t even know me.” I shake my head. “I don’t even know you!” I yell the last part. He closes the distance between us.
“You’re mine now. Have been from the moment I almost tripped over you. Knew in that moment I was going to protect you.”
“Who’s going to protect me from you?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’ve said. This man is offering me way too much. A fairy tale that I could wake up from.
“No one needs to protect you from me.” His hands go on either side of the counter, caging me in. He leans down, his face level with mine, our eyes locking. “I dare someone to stand between me and you.”
I dare them, too. It’s clear he found me easily. I have no idea how, but when I saw him standing in the gym I wasn't really shocked that he had sought me out so quickly. This is a man who gets what he wants and I can tell that he wants me. It’s written in every action he makes. It has to be more than sex. He has to have women throwing themselves at him. He isn't only freaking crazy hot but also richer than I will ever be able to wrap my mind around. I’m guessing he’s smart, too.
“I don’t belong in your world.”
“You belong to me, so that makes you in my world,” he throws back with a growl in his voice. The sound makes goosebumps break out on my skin. “We’ll get to know each other over time, but you belong here. With me.” He says his words with so much certainty, something deep inside me relaxes. Again, that safe feeling washes over me, bringing a sense of calm.
The microwave dings, and he cradles my face in his big hands. “You belong,” he whispers against my lips before he takes them in a deep kiss that ends all too soon. He strides over to the microwave and pulls the dish out. He grabs a fork and sets the plate on the counter next to me.
“I grew up in this world. I never felt like I belonged, so I left.” He brings the fork to my mouth. I take a bite. The taste of chicken with a cream sauce fills my mouth. I moan around it. It’s so freaking good. I can’t remember the last time I ate something this good. If ever.
Warren stills at the sounds and I watch hunger and desire take over his face. His jaw clenches and his blue eyes seem to get even darker than they already are. He takes a deep breath.
I swallow the food. “When you went into the Marines?”
He nods, giving me another bite of food. “I liked being in the Special Forces, but I once again didn't feel like I completely belonged. Something was missing. I didn't know what it was.” He says it like he’s just now realizing it. “When I came back after my father died I buried myself in work.” He shrugs. “It’s all I know anymore, but today when I ran into you I felt like I had a purpose I actually wanted to work for. You. You’re where I belong.”
“I like the idea of belonging somewhere. I have never belonged anywhere.”
He looks almost pained as I say that. “Now tell me why you’re homeless, sweet girl.” At his softness, everything comes pouring out of me. About going from foster home to foster home after the state took me from my mother when I was ten. I haven’t seen her since then. Not that I wanted to. She wasn't a good mother. If you can even call her that. She was never around.
Then ageing out onto the streets, jumping from shelter to shelter until I ended up at the community center. When I tell him about Mr. Barton a look a rage like nothing I’ve ever seen crosses his face. I now know that when I threw paint on him earlier today it wasn’t anger on his face. This is anger. I reach up and touch him.