Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
I shudder, then curse myself. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Shh, not a word.” He winks. “Unless you want to let me hear your voice?”
I give him the middle finger.
“That’s the last time you flip me off. Do it again and I will take matters into my own hands. Literally.”
He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke in my face like an asshole.
Soon after, his attention falls on the motionless statue. I’d feel sorry for her if she were a real person, but it’s better if he focuses on his art rather than me.
But with the damned position, I’m forced to breathe him in, the scent of man and intoxicating cologne. This close, I can’t help noticing just how well-built his face and physique are. Arguably as perfect as his beloved statues.
Too bad he’s as cold as them, too.
About twenty minutes later, I start fidgeting. It’s impossible to stay too long in one position. Unless I’m playing chess, and that’s definitely not the case right now.
It doesn’t help that I’m inexplicably drawn to Landon and keep telling myself I haven’t gone crazy yet.
“Stop shifting unless you’re trying to hump my leg. In that case, go for it.”
“I’ll hump your leg in hell, asshole,” I sign.
“Fine with me, little muse.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“What?” he asks without looking at me.
“Muse. Why am I your muse?”
“Figures.” It’s a single word, but he says it with such nonchalance, as if it means nothing on his destruction curriculum for the day.
I lift my hand, but he gives me a look, to suggest I stop talking, no doubt. I’m so tempted to claw his gorgeous eyes out.
I try to remain still and chance taking out my phone. Landon doesn’t seem to notice, or he probably does but doesn’t care.
My attempts to relieve myself from the growing ache between my legs tether on the edge of failure with each brush of his arm against my side. The fanning of his breath against my cheek.
Inhaling deeply, I pull up Bran’s number and find his text from last night that I wasn’t in the right state of mind to read, let alone reply to.
Brandon: Have you gotten home safe? I’m here to help if your brother causes you trouble.
Mia: Hey! Sorry for the late reply. Yeah, I got home okay, and don’t worry about Niko. I know how to handle him.
His reply is immediate.
Brandon: Good to know. I was worried something might’ve happened to you.
Something happened all right, and I’m currently paying the price for it in Landon’s arms.
Mia: Hey, Bran. I know you’ve always mentioned I should stay away from Landon (not that I’m getting close to him or anything). Do you have any pointers on how to remove myself from his radar?
Brandon: The most important step is to never get on his radar in the first place. Once you’re there, it’s impossible to shake him off unless he willingly chooses to back off. Is he bothering you?
More like he’s sucking the life out of me.
I’m about to tell Bran not to worry so as not to drive a wedge between him and his twin, but the phone is snatched from between my fingers.
I stare into Landon’s displeased face and instinctively suck in a breath. The bastard has a mysterious power of making people feel uncomfortable with a single glance.
“Keep your attention on me when sitting on my lap.”
I can feel heat flaring up my neck, but I lift my chin. “I would’ve if you didn’t happen to bore me to tears.”
“And yet I can feel you dripping on my trousers.”
My mind goes blank. Did the earlier arousal somehow transform into something physical?
No, it can’t be possible.
Landon is just trying to get in my head. If I let him, he’ll swallow me whole and leave nothing but scattered bones.
“That’s not true,” I sign.
He methodically removes the cigarette from his mouth and stubs it in a makeshift ashtray made of clay.
Then he retrieves a wet wipe and cleans both his hands, enveloping me in an accidental hug.
He does it once.
Twice.
After the third time, he places the used wipe on top of the murdered cigarettes crowding the ashtray.
The arm that’s snaked around my back grips my waist, strong fingers digging into the flesh.
His other hand slides across my dress before he bunches it up, using one finger at a time as if he’s unwrapping a gift.
My heartbeat skyrockets and goosebumps cover other goosebumps on my flesh. The visual of his bigger, veiny hands—of course, the asshole possesses hands that are worthy of porn—on my paler flesh leaves me breathless.
Unlike earlier, his hand doesn’t stop at my thigh and, instead, travels up and up, leaving a mayhem of tingles in its wake.
A part of me knows I need to stop this. Grab his hand and kick him in the nuts for daring to touch me so intimately.