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)
I hate how fragile, how wounded she looks.
I really do hate it, but a twisted part of me also enjoys it too much.
My eyes flick across her chest as she chews quietly, admiring how her tits bounce every time she draws a deep breath.
That shitstorm with the cartel’s men rattled me, but I’m not dead.
Maybe I’ve been around death too long to react like a normal person. Apparently, my agony comes out in dreams because I’m too tight-laced to open up.
And the latest brush with the reaper hasn’t done shit to quell any appetites—not the one in my gut or the one below.
It’s Delia I’m worried about first and foremost, though. I need to make sure she gets something in her belly.
The brain can survive. It’s plastic, always ready to be reshaped like clay, one of many truths I learned in BUD/S training the day I joined the ranks of SEAL Team Eleven.
“You don’t need to feel bad for me, princess. Let alone for those assholes I sent to their maker.” I wait for her eyes. “Believe me, I don’t. I’m glad they’re dead.”
“I know. You’re crazy strong, Chris. I just... This is the first time you had to kill like this, isn’t it? Alone. Without your team,” she says, shaking her head. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have fallen behind and gone wandering off. If I hadn’t stopped to see what was inside that scummy mall—”
“The next sounds I hear coming out of your mouth better be chewing, babe.” My fist slaps the small black dining table softly. “Stop apologizing. Stop feeling bad. Those freaks I mopped up are the only ones who should apologize for shitting up our night, and they’re too dead now for remorse. You didn’t cause this. I let you wander, and those men only wanted you to get to me.”
Her gorgeous brown eyes pinch shut.
Sighing, she dunks her bread in the orange bisque, swirling it like she mixes her paints. “I still feel bad. I can’t help it. You know I wanted to use you for my paper? I wanted to make up when I hoped you’d come back to the house, yeah, but really... I was desperate to get in your head. Dissect what drives you, what terrible things you live with. I made you my freaking guinea pig for that stupid paper. And I hate that I was too chicken to just ask you to your face.”
I swallow a big bite of my steak and grin.
She really thinks I’m that clueless, huh?
“I know all about your project. You’re a tease, Cordelia Burr. Lucky for you, I’m willing to strip myself bare if that’s what it takes to get into your panties.” I pause, loving how she gasps. “Frankly, woman, I don’t care what you write if it’s not classified and isn’t about my batshit mother. Nobody walking around without a trident will ever know shit, anyway. SEAL stories for Johnny and Jane Public are just war fantasies. Hero masturbation when comic books and their capeshit movies aren’t enough. So give the people what they want. Feel free to play up how it makes me a teary puddle of mush when the smoke clears. I don’t care.”
She sighs, rolling her shoulders, leveling a heavy look on me.
“I want more than another basic hero worship piece, Chris. And I don’t just mean the project. I still care about knowing you.”
I reach across the table and clasp her hand.
“You will. Don’t let what happened the other night take anything away. That’s up to us. Now, you done playing confessional, or are you gonna drag that bread through that soup till it’s ice-cold?”
She shoots me a reluctant smile and finally lifts it to her lips.
I watch her lips moving, trying to keep my cock from splitting my trousers.
Fuck, that mouth of hers.
Too kissable. Too biteable. Too much sugar and spice.
I’ve tasted her before, yeah, but never as deep as I wanted.
If she comes out of her funk, I’m done playing.
I’ll gorge myself on everything quintessentially Delia.
“So in the interests of knowing each other, you want to tell me what that color wheel you rattled off is all about?” I ask, topping off our wineglasses from the bottle.
“Color wheel?”
“When you’re nervous, spooked, upset, whatever the fuck. You start whispering about colors. I could barely bring you out of it after I found you in the bathroom.”
“Oh, I...” She sniffs roughly, scratching the back of her neck. “This is going to sound lame.”
“Try me,” I say with a snort, leaning toward her intently.
“It’s just an old habit. I had a really rough time when Mom and Dad got divorced, especially when Mom decided she was just done with us. I asked Dad to sign me up for all the art classes I could handle. This teacher, Miss Lemay, she had us learning all the less common shades of different colors and she’d always compare them to something. Then I’d think about those colors and their combinations and what they could make every time I got stressed. At some point, I guess I started saying it out loud...”