Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
He took advantage of her hesitation, his nudity slipping around her and his hands controlling her legs until she straddled his lap, sitting chest to chest, his arms locked around her back. Hot skin pressed against hers, slick and hard and entirely too close. She shoved against the twitching muscles on his chest, but his embrace was implacable, a steel cage of limbs.
His lips brushed the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and he breathed deeply, smelling her.
She shivered. She needed clothes, a shower, her routine, and...courage. Her fingernails dug into his back as she scanned the clutter strewn throughout the room. There, her robe, tossed over her duffel bags on the floor in the corner. The rest of the room... Oh my God.
A beer bottle sat on the dresser. Dirty socks piled beside the bed as if he'd just kicked them off and left them there. Two hangers hung on the closet doorknob. The nightstand... Wait. What?
Her aquarium sat against the far wall, filled with the broken fragments of her life. What did he intend to do with it? Would he torture her by destroying them beyond recognition? Would he be so cruel? She sat taller on his lap, her breasts dragging unnervingly against his chest, her voice cracking. “Why is that here?”
The gentle tiptoe of his fingertips along her arms aroused unnerving sensations over her skin. He nuzzled her neck. “It means something to you.”
A lump swelled in her throat. It was just a career, but it signified the beginning and end of a normal life. She stared through blurry eyes at the one possession she would've lamented leaving behind.
As heartless and forceful as he was, nothing cruel lingered in his expression now. He studied her with daunting tenderness and an innocent sort of curiosity, and she felt knocked off balance. And naked, which had nothing to do with her lack of clothing. What if he threw the keepsakes away? Or used them against her? “It's just some broken memorabilia.”
He held her in place as he massaged the soreness from her wrist. “It was the only sentimental belonging in your house, and you had it displayed.” His touch moved over her wrists, gentle and attentive. “You liked to look at it, which tells me someone else destroyed it. Who?”
An angry pulse throbbed behind her eyes. Brent had taken a sledgehammer to everything that mattered to her. Except her career. That was on her. But she wasn't about to tell Van any of that. He didn't know about her ex-husband, and she couldn't afford to expose any more of herself beneath his perceptive eyes. So she decided on stubborn silence.
His hands moved to her calves and ankles, kneading the muscles, coaxing circulation, and easing her stiffness. She didn't trust his tenderness for a second, and her vulnerability escalated with each soothing caress.
He seemed to be distracted with his hands busy on her legs. She could slip off his lap and run.
And run where? The closet? Or she could endure his touch and try to figure him out. “What are you doing?”
“I got carried away. I never checked the cuffs, and they were too tight.” His eyes were fixed on his fingers, but she sensed his attention was singularly focused on her. On her shallow breaths, the prickles bumping up her flesh. On what she might say next.
His profile was so painfully striking as he bowed his head, lips parted, face soft with affection. Any woman would've fallen into his bed at the crook of his finger. Hell, she'd offered the night she'd met him, and didn't that just dig under her skin? “You turned me down; then you returned and took me by force. Are you a serial rapist? A stalker? A murderer?” She trembled to put the space of the room between them but forced her eyes to his and whispered, “What are you?”
Something slipped over his expression, a menacing shield that turned his jaw to stone. He gripped her waist and set her on her feet, pushing her away. His elbows dropped to his knees as he watched her from beneath sharp brows, eyes creased in searing slits, voice quiet. “I'm the heir of torment, Amber.”
She stepped back, hands shielding her groin and breasts.
He rose and held out his arms, unabashedly nude. “I'm the slippery footprints in your carpet. The creaking floor that steals air from your lungs. The hand that holds the gun.” He paced through the room, snagging a pair of jeans from the floor, and met her eyes. “I'm the inescapable curse that caught you when you opened your door.”
A shiver rippled through her and settled into her bones. Not a hint of arrogance in his words. Just the steady monotone of unresisting acceptance. As if he'd rehearsed that creepy speech or had at least given it a lot of thought.