Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I might be going fucking crazy, but based on the shit storm of my life lately, this doesn’t seem all that insane.
By the time I get my truck and pull up in front of Masha’s, Tilden is standing out front. The way her pretty dress wraps around her curves definitely caught my attention in the bar.
She sees my truck and reaches for the handle before I even make a full stop. She lets herself in rather than waiting for me to get out and open the door for her.
Not that I would have done that, but it’s relieving to see she doesn’t expect it. After what we shared yesterday, I don’t know what she might assume.
Once she’s in the truck and belted in, I take off for the under-ten-minute drive to our side of the mountain. I try to avoid looking at her legs that are slightly exposed when the hem of her dress rides up.
It’s quiet, and the silence is both awkward and acceptable. I’m just being a nice guy—odd, yes, I know—by offering her a ride home. We can put aside our differences for at least ten minutes.
Took way less than ten minutes to make her come yesterday.
I grit my teeth for letting those thoughts permeate my brain. I’ve got to quit thinking about it, but truth is, I’d kill for a taste of her again.
We’re no more than a mile from her driveway when she breaks the silence, and it causes my skin to prickle. “Why did you do that to me?”
It’s not good to take my eyes off the dark, winding roads, but I shoot her a quick glance. She’s turned in her seat to face me, and the dashboard illumination makes her eyes look slightly haunted by the question.
Or maybe it’s the possible answer that has her worried.
I don’t even think to lie and give it to her as plain as could be. “Because I wanted to.”
“But why?” she presses.
I glance at her again before I have to give my attention to her property looming ahead. I flick my blinker on. “Why does any guy want in a girl’s pants?”
“You’re not any guy,” she points out as I hang a left into her driveway. “You’re famous. A professional athlete. I’m nothing special. On top of that, you hate me. So it stands to reason you had a very defined and probably calculated plot, and I’m wondering if it’s because you think it gives you control over me. I want to assure you, it does not.”
I slow the truck to a stop and put it in park. Every bit of her little speech was adorable, except when she said she’s nothing special.
I mean… she’s something, but I don’t know what.
The old Coen, the one who loitered aimlessly in the time between the plane crash and me putting my tongue on her pussy, would have said something crass to knock her down.
For the life of me, I can’t find it within to be an asshole right now. I merely say, “It wasn’t calculated. It was lust, and that can’t be calculated.”
“Lust,” she repeats softly, those eyebrows drawing inward as she removes her seat belt. The upward lilt on the word lust makes it sound like an incredulous question. She can’t comprehend it.
I wait for a follow-up, some demand that I prove it with affirmation of my attraction to her.
Instead, she nods. “Okay.” She pulls the handle and the truck door pops open. She glances back. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I’m mildly stunned when she hops out and shuts the door. In my headlights, I watch her walk up to her front entry, fiddle in her purse for keys, and without a backward look to me, slip inside.
I don’t put my truck in reverse. A light comes on inside her cabin, but I can’t see what she’s doing as the front blinds are all closed.
I should go home.
Put her out of my mind once and for all. Leave her be until I see her in court. I have absolutely no reason to see or talk to her again.
And yet, I find myself turning off the ignition and opening the truck door. I slide out, shut it, and walk up to the porch. A light comes on in a window to the right, a soft glow—maybe a lamp.
Her bedroom?
Turn around and go home, Coen.
I glance back at my truck, curse under my breath, and knock.
Tillie is quiet, light on her feet, and I don’t know she’s come to the door until it swings open. She’s still wearing that dress, but her feet are bare.
Tilden tips her head. “Coen?”
Fuck… why does she have to sound all breathy and wanting? Why doesn’t she look pissed I’m bothering her? I’m the fucking enemy.
What to say? How do I even tell her I want her, but I don’t want to want her? How do I let myself have this and still pay penance for my sins against Kyle?