Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 79(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Thank goodness for Harold, he opted for covering me first, then tossing me over his shoulder.
“Hey, I’m fine! You can put me down now. I’m not some damsel in distress.”
I hear a grunt, his fingertips dig into my ass, then more stomping footsteps before I’m mounted onto the rain slick seat of an enormous motorcycle and a helmet is pressed onto my head, hair still masking my eyes as I sputter and try to scrape the strands from my face so I can see what the heck is going on.
“You’re down. Now, hold on.”
A crack of thunder makes me scream and wince, shoulders hunching as my head tries to turtle right into them. I hate storms. I always have. I usually hide in the bathroom or in the kitchen at the restaurant whenever there is lightning or thunder.
My protests are stalled as Chance climbs onto the bike in front of me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the white flashing lightning.
“Hold on.” His thick voice rumbles through the rain and thunder, strong hands tugging at mine, wrapping them around his slick center as I thread my fingers together, pressing my cheek into the hard, bare muscle of his back.
“Where are we going?” I half yell as he jerks his leg up then down and the bike roars to life.
“Somewhere safe,” he answers, and against all logic, I believe him.
The next moment, I’m hurtling through the rain and darkness with a stranger, but somehow he feels like a safe haven. I’m comforted by the feel of him against me, even as the storm rages around us and I wonder how he can see anything and keep the bike steady with the force of the wind coming off the ocean.
I have no idea how long we ride like that with me clinging to him as he barrels through the storm in near pitch-black night.
I manage to open my eyes a few times, and the longer we ride, the darker it gets. The road turns from pavement to dirt. Mud splatters up around us, clinging to his torso and my arms as we hit more and more bumps and the bike slips and spins.
I yelp against the hardness of Chance’s back, my arms a tight noose around his mid-section even as a warmth gathers in my center and my heart does a tap dance inside my chest.
The bike races up a steep incline as I think of his unusual dark eyes with their hint of red. They remind me of my guilty pleasure, the Twilight movies I like to watch when I’m exhausted and unable to sleep. There is something comforting about knowing how things will work out. Some people like the surprise of a new book or a movie, but I much prefer the security of going on an adventure with a sure and happy outcome.
Unlike what’s happening right now.
There’s something that makes me feel I know this man but every logical synapse in my brain is firing, trying to tell me otherwise.
He’s thick and hard and delicious, sure. That works great in a movie or a magazine, but in real life? Plenty of dangerous men are just as sexy, but somehow, right now, none of that matters.
I feel like a child behind him. My petite, four foot eleven and a half inches makes me feel snack sized compared to his lumbering, towering presence. He’s bigger than either of my brothers and that’s saying something.
My legs are spread wide, straddling the back of him, and there’s an unyielding warmth still growing down deep.
I hear the bike downshift, the movement of Chance’s legs as he shifts gears and we start to slow down. The rain is in sheets now, I hear the angry ocean to my left and see the white-capped waves when I peek at the same time a new white flash of lightning fills the sky.
I see the outline of a house in front of us as Chance eases the bike into an overhang next to a structure obscured by trees and plants and the darkness of the night.
“Come on.” He reaches around and grabs me around the waist, not waiting for me to comply with his order before mounting me on his hip like a child and barreling up a few steps, across a porch then through a doorway as the heavy helmet bobbles on my head.
Everything about this is reckless. Even more-so when he finally releases my head from the helmet, and I watch him moving around the room, lighting a few candles that throw out the barest low light. His body is soaking wet and muddy, water dripping from his dark hair into the valleys and cuts of his chest and abs. His jeans are drenched and clinging to every ridge and shape of what God gave him.