Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38962 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
“Joseph,” I mumble his name under my breath. He’s still working on the industrial-sized mixer. The power isn’t working, and at first, my concern was I’d need to replace the whole thing. JW had already told me last night he wouldn’t be working at the ranch today and would come to the bakery with me. A damn shame, too, because I rather enjoy watching as he works with horses. I’ve gotten a glimpse in the early morning when I actually wake up with him and not after him. I’d grab a cup of coffee, put on a cardigan so I could avoid wearing a bra, and walk down to the barn to watch him work. Some days, he would be cleaning stalls, feeding horses, and on the days he does farrier work…goodness gracious, I’m practically clawing at him when he’s done. My thighs clench remembering each and every stroke he makes with a hoof pick, his forearms flexing and pulling, muscles taut, and the heated looks he sends my way. Needless to say, he’s sweating from working, and I’m sweating from watching.
There have been a few times we’ve snuck into the tack room, scrambling to get our clothes off, and the minute he slams inside me, everything else ceases to exist.
“Maeve.” JW’s voice carries a hint of worry. His eyes aren’t locked on mine; he’s looking over my shoulder.
“What? What’s wrong?” That’s when I feel it, a presence behind me. I’m afraid to turn around.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong is you’re trying to ruin me. You have ruined me.” I know that voice after one conversation and only a few minutes at that. Clayton the scumbag douchebag fuckface who is trying to ruin my life for the second time.
“Don’t. Stay still,” JW says. I’m grabbed by my ponytail and I’m grasping for anything to get away. The man who has done more for me in the little time we’ve been together shakes his head, telling me not to keep thrashing. Tears instantly cloud my eyes, rolling down my cheek when I feel cold metal along the side of my throat.
“Oh god.” I’m well and truly trapped. JW is helpless and I’m helpless. He’d never do anything to exacerbate the situation.
“God isn’t going to help you,” Clayton sneers. “Cuff yourself, now,” he orders JW, taking his hand off my hair for a moment to toss the handcuffs his way. JW catches them but hesitates for a moment. “Do it or the fat bitch gets sliced and diced.” I’m tempted to lift my leg and stomp him with my heel, except there’s a knife at my throat, and depending on the size and serration, a lot of damage could be done.
“That won’t be necessary,” JW says. I watch as he hooks one cuff around his wrist, but when he starts to do the other, Clayton stops him.
“Behind your back.” How he’s going to be able to maneuver to meet his demand, I have no idea. Clayton lets go of my hair, keeping the knife at my throat as he walks me forward. The repulsive scent of his cologne has me holding back a gag, barely. Why do some men feel the need to douse themselves in super expensive disgusting-smelling shit?
“Done,” he states. I gawk. How is that even possible? There goes any hope that he’d work on JW’s handcuffs, and I could run my ass behind the counter to hit the panic button. Now, we’re even more trapped.
“Walk,” Clayton says to both of us. I don’t have a choice in the matter considering he’s behind me and I’d rather not feel him pressed along any part of my body. I move with a quickness which backfires on me. The tug on my hair puts me in my place. Apparently, whatever it is I did or didn’t do, Clayton Smith is going to hurt me or the person I love.
We make it behind the counter where he lets me go. “Don’t move a fucking muscle.” He turns his knife to JW. My heart sinks. It’s now or never. I’ve got seconds to move to the cash register before Clayton turns back to face me.
I mouth to JW, “We’ve got this. We’re going to be okay.” I’m light on my feet, thankfully in shoes that don’t make any squeaking today, like flip-flips and sneakers. My slides really came in handy even though JW arched a brow at the tan leather and pearl accessories. I wanted to look cute since baking wasn’t happening. Cute attire seemed like the best idea ever.
My man slightly shakes his head, but I’m already moving, slowly, while keeping my feet planted on the ground. My finger meets the button, the panic switch which is basically a silent alarm for alerting the police, and I smash my finger into it all before Clayton turns around. I breathe a slight sigh of relief until I realize JW is further away from me and now handcuffed in a permanent kind of way. God, please have the police here as soon as fucking possible.