Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“Okay.” I don’t apologize, and I don’t try to explain myself either. It would be a waste of my energy.
His grip tightens. “You’re hungry.” I nod. “Thirsty?” I simply raise my coffee cup, and his grip tightens a little more. You would think with my compliance he would be softening. But his hold of me is getting harder. And I know why. He’s looking for a yelp, anything to show my discomfort. He won’t get it.
“Harder,” I spit without thought, setting my coffee cup on the counter and placing a hand over his on the back of my neck. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly.” I push down, egging him on, and he moves in, his groin pressing into my back.
Dipping, he bites my lobe, grazing it harshly through his teeth. I close my eyes and force myself not to allow our contact to dent my resolve.
“Coffee?” I ask, completely out of the blue. It’s stupid, but there’s a method in my madness. Get him off me before I do something I regret. Like swivel and unzip his fly.
He chuckles in my ear, the sound soft and light.
Just like that.
From growling, angry bear, to cute little cub.
“Please.” He releases me, and I jump off the stool like a rubber ball, taking myself to the safe side of the island as I shake myself back to life. He takes my stool, cocking one foot on the rest and leaning his elbows on the counter, watching me as I find my way around. I prepare his coffee, at the same time talking myself down from the edge of a deadly cliff. I also try to think of something else to say that doesn’t include anything I may or may not have heard while hovering on the threshold of his office. Unwanted Coast Guards. Consignments. Distractions.
I’m not surprised by my newfound knowledge. I’m curious, and curiosity in this world gets you killed. Luckily for me, I have a desire to breathe, even if I’m not technically living. “Sugar?” I ask, turning to face him.
“Obviously, I’m sweet enough.”
I scoff, and I don’t apologize for it. Danny Black is about as sweet as hell is cold. “Here.” I slide the cup across the island, and he takes it before I have a chance to remove my hand, pressing my palm into the hot ceramic, keeping it there while holding my eyes. His are blazing. Fire and ice swirl in their depths. I let my stare fall to his neck, where a dusting of hair pokes out the top of his open-collared shirt. And then they drop farther south to our hands on the cup. The heat sinking into my flesh is there, but it’s not there. Nothing is really there when I’m touching him. Close to him.
“Thank you.” He releases his palm and watches me as he takes the cup to his mouth. “I think something’s burning.”
My senses are hyper-alert, but my sense of smell is too busy appreciating his cologne to notice the other potent scent in the room until he pointed it out.
Then I see smoke.
“Shit.” I dart across to the toaster and press every lever on it, trying to eject the smoking bread. No luck. My breakfast continues to burn, the smell intensifying. I glance around the area, searching for anything to dig it out. There’s nothing. “Damn it.” In desperation, I shove my hand in and flick it out, worried I might set all the fire alarms off.
I throw the burnt toast on the plate and stare at the pile of charcoal. “I hope you didn’t kidnap me for my culinary skills.” I look up and find Black with his coffee resting to his lips, still and quiet, watching me. His face is impassive. No amusement whatsoever. We stare. It’s silent. My eyes begin to roam every inch of his face, and his roam over mine. His breathing deepens. Mine becomes strained. I see a million sins in his eyes. And I wonder if he sees the dirt of my life in mine.
The lever on the toaster pops up. It makes me jump, and my eyes snap away from his. I realign my thoughts quickly and take the plate, ready to dump my breakfast in the bin.
“Put the plate down.”
I freeze. Look up at him. “What?”
He slowly places the cup on the island and rounds it, taking the plate from my hand and setting it aside. Then he presses the lever down on the toaster again. “I haven’t put any more bread in it,” I tell him, reaching for the loaf that Esther left. My hand doesn’t make it. He seizes my wrist firmly, stilling me.
Then he guides my hand toward the toaster. The heat on my flesh is instant. So is my confusion. His eyes drill holes into me while he slowly takes my hand down until my palm meets the red-hot heat of the metal. I feel nothing. Am I hardened? Stupid? I don’t know, but I don’t feel what I’m supposed to feel. Pain.