Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Chapter 2
Ryker
I feel her gaze on me the minute I walk into the bar, and my dick hardens slowly against the inside of my thigh. I go to my usual table in the corner. I hate this fucking bar. There’s nothing here to like, except for one thing. Lola Webb.
She’s the only reason I’ve been coming here for over a year. I don’t touch her. She’s not mine. She’s too fucking young and the kind of woman a man could lose his head over. So I stay away, as much as I can.
Still, I’m so fucking pussy-whipped that I’ve been coming to this bar, eating their shitty food, and drinking their watered-down beers for a year, not because I want to be here, but because I know I’ll see her. Up until six months ago she only worked in the kitchen—because she wasn’t old enough to serve alcohol. I hate that she slings drinks to the assholes here, but I’m not claiming her, and the she-bitch-cunt-from-hell she calls a mother sure doesn’t support her. So, Lola’s always earned her own way. I admire that, even if I don’t like the way she does it.
Lola has a spirit about her that I like. She’s free, self-sufficient and she refuses to take shit off of anyone. It’s the kind of spirit a man—a real man—nurtures. Fuck. The truth is, I like everything about the little spitfire. Every. Fucking. Thing—save one.
I’ve forced myself to stay away from her because of her age. Even now she’s barely legal at just eighteen. She’s much too innocent for a hardened, filthy asshole like me to touch and she deserves a hell of a lot better than an old, broken-down grease monkey. So I stay here, watching her. Sitting just one table over from the tables that she takes care of. All that is on purpose.
If I had my fucking way I’d throw her over my shoulder, take her back to my place, and she would never leave. I’d probably tie her to my fucking bed.
An image of Lola bound to my bed and completely naked springs to my mind. My dick jerks at the image. She’d have to depend on me for everything. I’d be the one to feed her, bathe her…brush her hair. She would be completely at my mercy—forced to ask me for whatever she wanted or needed. Maybe even beg.
I could have groaned at that image, and the filthy fucking thoughts slamming into my head.
The idea alone is so potent it goes to my head like a fucking drug. One of the nameless waitresses brings my usual bottle of bourbon over and a glass. She tries to make small talk, but I ignore her. I’m only here for one reason and it’s not her.
My gaze is glued to Lola’s ass, round, tight, and fucking delicious, molded against those denim cut-off shorts she definitely had to be poured into. I throw back my first drink, so pissed my hand literally shakes. Her fucking ass cheeks are hanging out of the back of her shorts. I can literally see the curve that leads to the promise land—which means every fucker in here can see it too.
The view gets even better when she turns around. The tight black tank she wears hugs those tits of hers like a second skin. Every time she takes a step they sway and do this seductive dance that draws a man’s eyes. There’s no fucking way she’s wearing a bra. My heart rate speeds and my fucking breathing goes ragged as I wonder if I could see her damn nipples if she were closer. I bet I could and I bet they’d be small and get so fucking hard for me. The kind of nipples a man could wrap his tongue around and suck hard, turning them bright red before biting into them and letting the thrill of pain explode over her body.
I force myself to take another drink and count backwards from fifty. I remind myself of all the reasons I shouldn’t touch Lola Webb. I do all this while my body is reminding me that I haven’t fucked a woman in over a year, because the only woman my dick seems to want is the one woman I’m trying to deny myself.
Fucking hell…
Chapter 3
Lola
Why I thought tonight would be any different I don’t know. Ryker spends the entire evening nursing a bottle of bourbon, staring at me but doing nothing. It’s enough to drive a girl insane.
“Damn it, Lo, watch where you’re going!” Tina, the other waitress working with me, yells. I look up just in time to avoid crashing into her.
“Sorry, Tina. I was…distracted.”
“You were eye-fucking Mr. Hot, broody, and a whole lot of trouble over there,” she mutters. I’d try to deny it, but there’s not much I can say.