Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, you’re going to get a call from a Detective Collins.”
“A detective? I thought you took the case?”
Silence.
“Ollie?” The line goes dead. “Shit,” I yell, slamming my cell down on the mattress. As if I needed luring anymore. My guilt multiplies, and it’s fast superseding my misery. I haven’t even found the man responsible for my mother’s death. I am still without peace there, and now I’m dealing with the death of another parent, again, by all accounts, under suspicious circumstances. What the hell was Dad doing at that hotel? Who was he meeting?
The tussle between standing down and stepping up is becoming unbearable. But one thing I am certain of? I can’t argue with James. I get up and leave the room, and Fury falls into stride behind me, reminding me that escaping and meeting Ollie is about as likely as Danny allowing me to give Rose another driving lesson. Poor Dolly. “I’m going to the gym,” I call back.
“That’s lovely.”
I look over my shoulder, giving Fury a tired look. “Missing Tank?”
One of his eyes narrows, his huge shoulders rocking as he walks. “I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
“What look?” Fuck, am I that transparent? I return my attention forward and wait for his answer. But he says nothing. And not because he’s doubting what he’s seeing. What he knows.
I make it to the gym and face Fury. “Take a break,” I say quietly, grasping the handle behind me and pushing my way inside.
“You never mentioned that bit,” Danny hisses, and I come to a sharp stop, seeing James sitting on a bench rubbing his hair with a towel, looking insultingly bored, and Danny standing in front of him looking pissed off. And then Danny sees me and looks plain awkward, and James quickly becomes the angry one. Because of me. Because he knows I’ve been talking to Ollie. “Rose is waiting for me,” Danny says, stomping away, and I follow his path across the gym with my eyes. He slams the door behind him.
Never mentioned what bit? “Everything okay?” I ask, and James laughs sardonically.
“Fucking dandy, Beau.”
I face him on the bench. He’s still dabbing at his hair with the towel, slowly, purposely, watching me. He looks fucking furious. What can I say to him? That I don’t love Ollie? That my contact with him means nothing? That he’s being jealous and it’s ridiculous?
After my performance when I saw him with Beth?
Show him.
My hands start working on autopilot, and I reach for the fly of my denim shorts, unbuttoning them and pushing them down my legs. His eyes don’t move from mine, but the towel slowly lowers. I’m nervous. I can’t let him see me nervous. I step out of my shorts and unfasten the buttons of my shirt as I pad toward him, hoping, praying his craving for me outweighs his annoyance.
The towel drops to the floor.
His thighs spread a fraction more.
I breathe in, my nerves vanishing and desire appearing, hot and potent.
The moment I’m within reach, his arm extends, snaking around my lower back, and he tugs me into him, pulling my shirt apart and kissing my stomach, his huge hands on my hips, holding me, mine resting on his shoulders. I exhale raggedly, looking down at the back of his head, sliding my fingers to his nape and playing with the fine hair there. It’s fairer than when I first met him.
Because he’s spending more time in the light. More time in sunshine.
His fingers slip into the sides of my panties and pulls them down, and he looks up at me, his eyes clouded and desperate. I stroke across his stubble and lower my mouth to his, kissing him softly. “She’s here,” I whisper. “She’s here and she’s yours.”
He groans and stands, lifting me and settling me on the bench, yanking my legs apart as he falls to his knees before me. “My period,” I gasp, my back straightening, my hands not knowing whether to hold on to James or the bench. But then he growls, slams his mouth between my thighs, and my decision is made for me, my hands grabbing onto his hair.
He bites at my thighs, kisses, sucks my flesh, and despite him avoiding entering me, I start to shake violently, yanking at his hair, making his head jar and jerk. And just when the pressure is about to release, he pulls away and stands, and I moan my loss. He dips and pushes my shirt from my shoulders, pulling it off each wrist and tossing it aside, then yanks the cups of my bra down. With the absence of his hot mouth, the air between my thighs suddenly feels cooler, and it is welcome. I watch, awed, as he pulls his T-shirt off, his chest undulating as he does, and then his shorts are gone and he is gloriously naked and impressive before me, his cock ready and dripping. I swallow and reach for it, hungry, eager, and circle him at the root, opening my mouth and moving in, looking up as I do, seeing him watch me. I lick. A groan. I bite. A jerk. I suck. Vibrations.