Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
For a second, we stop fretting over the tension, the litany of questions about what sharing a bed means, if it means anything at all.
Then reality hits me in the face. Literally.
Her palm smacks my cheek and I drop her.
Damn, do I love that sting.
It feels the same way aged bourbon tastes.
“There you are, princess. Feisty as ever. You had me worried,” I say, staring until she snaps her face away from me.
“Just don’t do anything stupid, Chris. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it,” she says softly, a serious weight in her big brown eyes. “We can’t mess around again. Not here. Not ever.”
Not true, a dark, buried voice inside me roars.
She doesn’t need to know I’m in a war with that voice right now.
So I smile, push my hand into hers, and force my eyes to the breathtaking scenery below.
“Whatever you say, babe. As soon as you’ve had your fill feeding your muse for your next pretty painting, let’s go have some fun.”
9
Tart Red Disaster (Delia)
One bed.
One big, tiny, pillowy puff of ten thousand stitch silk that feels like it’s made of a billion needles.
I regret not going out exploring earlier. But the sheer exhaustion and shock of this surprise meant never leaving the hotel, even if I agreed to let Chris lead me around this luxurious palace to a dinner fit for a—princess.
I know, I know.
But I’m glad I did.
Besides taking the edge off the awkwardness of the one bed problem, the delicious four course meal gave me a chance to stuff myself with savory meats and rich desserts I thought might summon the Sandman.
...except, so far, he’s nowhere to be found.
My belly actually rumbles from nerves when I roll over to face him again.
If Chris feels my torture, he doesn’t show it.
He’s sprawled out like a lion after a long day’s hunt, his magnificent, powerful body stretched in a peaceful slumber. A soft snore ripples out of him every few breaths—nothing like the deafening logs Dad saws in his sleep—and it makes me smile.
He’s yanked the thin sheet halfway down in his sleep, exposing a shamelessly bare chest.
I can just make out the trident inked across his muscle in the dreamy blue low night light of our room.
I’m also able to see about a mile of rock-solid man.
But for a body made for so much punishment, he’s a gentle giant tonight, sleeping so deeply and beautifully it makes me a little jealous.
And that jealousy makes me the lightest sleeper ever.
When I’m finally deep into counting about two hundred sheep, I jerk awake from a half sleep, breathing hard.
There’s something huge and heavy wrapped around me.
Something thick and simmering against my butt.
Oh, no.
My heart lunges into my throat as I try to turn—and can’t.
Because I’ve got more than two hundred pounds of ginormous hero-man eclipsing me, his thick arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his seriously large—ahem—digging into my ass.
Holy hell.
He must’ve rolled across the entire mattress in his sleep.
It’s like my body knew—and welcomed it—before I even startled awake.
Nerves in places I never knew I had are singing, “Day O!”
My skin is a flimsy sheet of flame.
And that sharp ache between my legs pulses like the strings on a violin—resonate, insistent, demanding to be played to a finish.
I swallow hard.
“Bull. Fucking. Shit,” he rumbles against my ear, unmistakable anger in his tone.
I freeze, my lust fever momentarily broken.
“Sex, no. Tell them we’re not pulling back for extraction. You saw...you saw the shit in that asshole’s library. If we pulled one out behind that fucking bookshelf—that prison—you know there’s more...”
His arm around me tightens.
Oh my God.
Bookshelf prison? What is he talking about?
I turn carefully, just enough to see Chris’ face.
Gone is his peaceful big cat expression from earlier.
Now, his whole face is contorted, screwed up with a pain that scares me. His lips are still moving, but I can’t make out the words, speaking terrible words only known to him.
“Chris,” I whisper softly, finding his arm with my fingers.
I brush his skin lightly, trying to banish this nightmare or flashback that has him in its grip.
“...goddammit, no! I’m not leaving. Not letting those assholes run. You’ll have to slug me and drag me out, boss. Yeah, I don’t care if they’re holed up in some room with a whole army. I’m not fucking leaving—we’ve got two men down besides the girl and more kids to find—so you can tell Strauss you’re leaving without me, or you can find your fucking balls and help.”
I gasp.
It’s that raid with the Jordan Warzach bust.
He’s reliving a special kind of hell, chasing a man armed to the teeth who enslaved little girls and women for money—some from right here in Vegas, supposedly.
“Chris!” I whisper more urgently, shaking him.
For a second, his face screws up.
His big hand covers mine this time.
Then his fingers start closing, tight and crushing—too hard!