Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“What’s wrong?” His low rumble is a touch gravelly this time, roughened by a dark emotion I don’t fully understand. Frustration? Disapproval? Residual lust?
My gaze fixes on the park again. I can’t bear to look at him. He might see some of the sickness in my soul if I allow him to look into my eyes.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “It’s too public here.”
I fumble over the almost-lie. It’s not entirely untrue that I don’t want to have a full panic attack in the park. But Dane will think I’m talking about disliking public displays of affection.
“What if I want people to see?” he counters, his voice dropping to the deep register that seems to thrum through me. “What if I want every man to know that you’re with me?”
Anxiety tightens my muscles, even as my core pulses for him.
Dane clearly likes control, and that prospect intrigues me as much as it scares me. I could so easily melt for this man, but if he realizes how fucked up I really am, he’ll turn from me in disgust. He’s far too cultured and refined to understand the darkest parts of me.
Gathering my wits, I force my lips to curve at the corners. My sunny smile is as fragile as the monarch butterfly that flutters near the gazebo, bright orange wings flashing in a cheery mockery of my own strained expression of false joy.
He lifts my hand and brushes a featherlight kiss over my knuckles. The gesture is almost reverent, and my heart skips a beat. His intense attention is gratifying and more addictive than anything I’ve ever experienced, even though I’m still reeling from the awful flashback of the attack.
“More later,” he promises.
Desire is still pulsing between my legs, and sweat beads on my brow. My stomach churns, a physical manifestation of the sickness inside me. I crave more time with Dane, but I need space to breathe without his alluring scent threading through my senses. The horrific, cloying scent of amber cologne still seems to saturate the air, warring with his.
“I need to go,” I murmur, gesturing weakly at the rapidly setting sun. “I have another early shift tomorrow.”
A muscle barely flutters in his jaw, but it smooths so quickly that I might’ve imagined it.
“All right,” he concedes, even though his eyes are still burning with dark green fire. “But I want you to text me when you get home.”
My brow furrows. “Why?”
He blows out a soft sigh, and that indulgent smile curves his delicious lips. “Is it so difficult to accept that I want to know you’re safe? I want to take care of you, Abigail. Let me.”
My heart tugs with longing. No one has taken care of me in years. Possibly ever, if I examine the truth too closely. I’ve been on my own for so long, resolutely standing on my own two feet. The prospect of leaning on Dane for support is terribly tempting.
“I can take care of myself,” I say, but the assertion isn’t sharp with resentment. I’m touched by his concern, even if I can’t allow myself the moment of weakness. “But thank you for caring about my safety. It’s not even dark yet. I’ll be fine to walk home.”
“I never said you aren’t capable of taking care of yourself,” he replies smoothly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to. Trust me, Abigail. I will never hurt you.”
His eyes flash on the last, and I sense the anger churning behind his genteel façade. He’s enraged on my behalf again, just like at the rooftop bar.
Who hurt you?
I glance away from his x-ray gaze, hiding my secrets from him.
Instead of replying to his intense declaration, I focus my attention on my purse and find my phone. My fragile smile is back in place when I look up at him once again.
“What’s your number?”
It can’t hurt to text him when I get home. If he’s worried about me, I can allay that concern.
I tell myself that my decision is more about putting him at ease than fulfilling my own desire to prolong this connection.
But the truth is that I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I’m leaving a date with him for the second time, and I don’t want him to interpret this as a rejection. I just need some time alone to collect myself in the wake of my perverted flashback when he kissed me.
His smile is sharp with something like triumph when he takes my phone and enters his number. He connects a call, and his phone vibrates in his pocket.
He has my number now too.
My belly flips. I crave more time in his addictive presence.
His fingers brush mine as he places my phone back in my waiting hand. The slow slide of his withdrawal is a sensual caress, and my cheeks flush as though he’s swept me up in another scorching kiss.