Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
His eyes are trained on me, narrowed.
“Maybe we need to remove the bits of gravel embedded in your flesh,” he chides. I wince at his scalding tone.
I nod.
Right.
Yes.
I should… remove my pants.
I reach for the button at my belly and flinch when I clench my hands. Good God, that hurts.
“Here,” he says in a harsh whisper. “Let me.”
And then his hands are on my waist and he’s lifting me to stand.
“I’m going to hell for this,” he says as he meets my eyes. “Just so we’re clear.”
“It’s a strange, harsh world you live in that you think doctoring someone’s wounds would send you to hell,” I whisper.
But his hands are at my waist and he’s expertly unfastening my pants.
Pushing them down my hips. Lowering them past my knees one by one, gently, making sure the fabric doesn’t scrape against my wounds.
“That’s not the part that would damn me,” he says, shaking his head. “Now sit back down before I fucking do something I regret.”
I’m standing in front of Thayer, who’s kneeling in front of me. I’m in my panties. He’s so close I can feel his warm breath on my skin. I imagine what it would be like if he held me.
This should… not be… erotic.
He’s… doctoring me.
I was injured.
He’s just being… brotherly.
“Are you laughing?” he asks, in that scowly-stern way that makes my heart flutter like butterfly wings.
“No,” I lie, and totally bust out with another laugh. I’m choking on my attempt not to laugh and failing miserably. Oh, God, I have to stop laughing.
“Savannah.” Thayer leans back on his haunches and fixes me with a harsh gaze with a hint of judgment behind it. He draws in a breath as if prepared to lecture me.
Mmm, lecture me, baby.
I’m giggling again, covering my mouth with my hand so he doesn’t see, which is about the same thing as closing my eyes and hoping that means he doesn’t see me.
Oh, God, I think the wildly swinging emotions of the night have me a little punchy.
“Yes?” I ask.
“What is so funny?”
“I—I don’t want to tell you what’s so funny.”
It takes more courage than I think it would to say this, but I soldier on, because there’s no way I’m telling him what’s going on in my mind.
“You’re damn lucky,” he says under his breath.
I feel my cheeks suddenly flame. “Why is that?” My words sound choked.
He holds my gaze for a few disquieting seconds. I squirm.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Wait, now that isn’t fair.
“Okay, excuse me?” I ask. Nicolette says I have a temper and I should watch it, because one day it will get me in trouble. “You can’t do that stopping in mid-sentence thing. You don’t like when I do that, and yet you did the same thing!”
“It’s called thinking before you speak, a concept I know is foreign to you.”
Oh, what an ass! How could I have thought he was hot?
“Sometimes, the better choice is not to complete a thought out loud, or to keep one’s thoughts to oneself.”
“Oh, really, is that right, Mr. Smarty-pants?”
The Gerard boys speak fluent English, and my French is actually excellent, but I’m not sure the whole “Smarty-pants” thing translates well.
Thayer stands. I haven’t forgotten that my pants are around my ankles.
I’m suddenly aware of every one of my senses, as if my simmering emotions have amplified them.
The feel of his hands on my skin. The way his breath burns me like I’m standing too close to a bonfire. His masculine scent, the deep vibration of his voice…
He reaches for my chin and holds it so I can’t look away. Quaking under the look he’s giving me, I stare at his lips, full and gently parted, like he wants to kiss me.
When he speaks, he bares his teeth to me like an animal. If I could step back, I would.
“Because if you were mine,” he says in a low rumble that ignites every nerve in my body, “you wouldn’t be allowed to hold things back from me. I’d train you to talk to me. To tell me what was on your mind and stop giving me bullshit answers and half-truths. You’d learn to speak honestly and answer my questions when I asked.”
I stare, aghast. I’m not sure he’s gotten the memo that this is the twenty-first century.
What’s scarier is that I’m not sure I care. The latent threat in his words, delivered in that protective yet nearly overbearing tone, electrifies me.
“If you were mine,” he continues, “I would discipline you for going out alone without a guard. You’d learn, and quickly, that putting yourself in danger merits swift and severe punishment.”
I’ve forgotten that I’m standing in his living room in my panties. I’ve forgotten the stinging pain in my knees. I’ve forgotten my crush on him, how badly I wanted his attention, because now that I have it, I realize He. Is. An. Asshole.