Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
I closed my eyes, trying to remember. I blushed, recalling the way he’d kissed me and tucked me into my bed. He hadn’t looked happy about letting me sleep, but he did.
I ran my hand through my hair and peeked into the kitchen. It wasn’t far. The apartment was tiny, with a just a tiny bedroom and a kitchen big enough for a small table and chairs. There was the ancient bathroom that was surprisingly clean, a closet in the short hallway, and that was it. No living room. That was it.
Home, sweet, home.
And right now, there was a massive six-foot-tall man in leather and ripped denim, bending over the stove while a delicious smell wafted over to me. He looked up from what he was doing and smiled.
“Hello, beautiful.”
He set down the spoon he was using on a folded paper towel and pulled me in for a kiss. A long, deep kiss that made me forget where I was for a minute. His lips were so warm and smooth. They molded to mine and then parted, his tongue slipping deep into my mouth. I kissed him back, tentatively at first, and then with an urgency I didn’t quite understand.
“Damn!”
He’d lifted me slightly, I realized. My feet were dangling off the floor. He set me down gently and shook his head.
“Hmm. Damn.”
“You said that already.”
He just bit his lip and went back to the stove. The man was too pretty for words. His dark green eyes were heavy-lidded and sensual-looking. His jaw could cut glass it was so sharp. And his lips were pink and soft. He was almost too good-looking.
I tried to focus, still feeling like I was half-asleep.
“You . . . cooked for me?”
“Stocked the fridge, too. Though to be honest, I don’t much like the thought of you here all by yourself.” He gave me a stern look. “This is not a good neighborhood.”
He sounded like a mother hen. It didn’t make sense with the tough and dangerous, sexy as all get-out image he presented. The man couldn’t be real. Could he?
“Who are you?” I breathed, staring at him like he’d stepped out of a movie poster.
He cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Callaway.” He gave me a cocky smile. “The guy who had his tongue down your throat a few seconds ago, remember?”
“First name?”
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. His thick, burly, muscled arms.
“Andrew. But nobody calls me that.”
“Not even your grandma?”
He gave me a challenging look.
“No. She doesn’t.”
I hid a smile. He was lying. Of course his granny called him by his first name. At least sometimes.
“Okay, fine. But who are you?”
He crossed his thick, muscular arms over his chest. He looked resigned. Almost wary.
“Alright, let’s do this. I ride with the SOS.”
“SOS?”
“Sons of Satan. I’m their ink master.”
“Ink?”
He shrugged out of his leather jacket and reached for his shirt. He gave me a look and hesitated.
“Might as well get this out of the way.”
He pulled his black T-shirt up and over his head, holding it loosely in his hand. I barely noticed. I was staring at his chest. His arms. Everywhere.
He was covered in ink.
Literally covered in it.
“It’s . . .” I reached out and traced the outline of a bird that looked like it was actually flying. It was so realistic. He flinched as my finger brushed his skin. “Beautiful.”
He exhaled, staring down at me with a hard look on his face.
“You think so?”
I nodded breathlessly. I’d never seen anything like it. His entire upper body was tatted, but what tats they were.
It wasn’t the usual skulls and daggers and snakes, though he did have a snake winding up one arm. This was more like a painting, with many elements woven together. Much of it was abstract, with some words here and there, references to Devils, and a scrawled Live Free or Die near his collarbone.
“You did this yourself?”
He nodded, watching me carefully.
“You’re an artist.”
“Tattoo artist, yeah.”
“No, I mean . . . you are an artist.”
He smiled brilliantly then.
“Thanks, babe.” He kissed me again, his hands cupping my ass and squeezing. “Hmm . . . stop distracting me. You need to eat.”
He gently pushed me toward the table.
“Sit.”
I sat just as my stomach gave a loud rumble. I stared hungrily as he set down a plate of pasta, little twisty bows slathered in red sauce. There was a piece of bread on the side that smelled like garlic and olive oil.
I almost moaned in ecstasy.
“It smells amazing.”
“Eat.”
He sat across me and offered me a small bowl with grated cheese. I took a spoonful and shook it over my food.
“Italian food?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Did you think Callaway was Spanish?”
I laughed, piling a fork high with food.
“No, it sounds English, I guess.”
He grinned widely while I tried to eat with dignity. It was so tasty that it was difficult.