Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
He presses his hand over mine, where it rests on the table. “Perhaps if I promised to keep you safe.”
Awareness rushes over me, my skin heating and my senses tingling with lethal warning. Creed. Creed is here, and I don’t know how I know, but he is most definitely angry, possessive, and ready to rip Brock apart. Fear trembles through me, not for myself but for Brock.
Chapter Eight
I yank my hand away from Brock’s at the same moment that a bosomy waitress appears at the table to refill our coffee mugs. I vaguely welcomed a refill while discreetly trying to calm my racing pulse, a whirlwind of emotions assailing me. I’m conflicted and confused; one part of me revels in Creed’s silent claim over me, while the other part of me is angry that he dared flex such a muscle after leaving me behind.
With a blink, I force myself back to the moment to realize I’m not missed, as the lieutenant colonel is chatting it up with the waitress, who in turn is flirting outrageously with him. I claim the opportunity to escape and push to my feet. “I’m going to freshen up before the second wave of press arrives,” I murmur, and, eager to get to Creed before he does something neither of us can come back from, I don’t wait for a reply. I might not fully understand the lifebond connection, but I know enough to know that the words “consuming” and “possessive” apply.
I’m on my feet in an instant, and with quick steps and a racing heart, I cross to the bar and ask for the location of the restroom. Once I know where I’m going, I walk through the lobby, knowing full well that Creed will follow and that he’ll find me. Soon I’m entering a narrow hallway and making my way toward the women’s restroom entrance, but once there, I pause, aware I’m inviting Creed to be alone with me. But there is no other option. I know this. I accept this. I shove open the door, taking in the eight or so stalls that ensure Creed cannot claim the empty space as only ours.
As if in defiance of this thought, the door slams shut behind me, and before I can ever turn, my back is suddenly pressed against the hard surface. Creed’s big body is fitted snugly to mine, his rough palm rasping over my thigh and under my skirt, and good Lord, he settles his cock between my thighs. Heat rushes over me, fire like I have not felt since he last touched me, lust that threatens to consume me.
“If he touches you again,” he declares, “I’ll kill him.”
If you stop touching me, I might die, I think, but I don’t say this to him, not when my anger is still oh so present, driving my reactions, driving me. “You don’t get to decide who touches me, Creed,” I declare, but I’m breathless, and the desire I feel in this moment that he so easily provokes in me is downright frightening.
He stares down at me, those bluer-than-blue eyes fixed on me, his long, dark hair wild around his face, passion harshly etched in his dangerously beautiful face. “You are my lifebond,” he declares, as if it makes everything and all things acceptable.
I shiver at the possessiveness of his words, aroused when I should be outraged. And damn it, I hate how easily he steals my control—how easily he can make me melt no matter how much time has passed. How easily that makes his statement and explanation, but I reject the idea. I reject that all free will is gone with the mark on my neck.
“Don’t call me that,” I whisper defiantly, reminding myself of his betrayal, telling myself the attraction is nature at work and nothing more. I’m over him. I will not fall for him and be hurt again. “Don’t act as if the mark gives you some claim over me. You don’t have one. Not anymore.”
“Ah, but I do,” he declares, his blue eyes alight with anger. “And we both know it.” His free hand caresses higher, cupping my backside.
I pant at the intimate invasion, my sex hot, my nipples puckering as he reaches up and rips open my blazer, little silver buttons flying about and clattering to the floor. The silk of my blouse gapes, my breast pushed high by the silk of my bra, his gaze raking hotly over my exposed skin. And then his cheek is next to mine, his hand branding my waist, his lips warm on my neck, and he says, “Mine. You will always be mine.”
Somehow, my hands have settled on his arms, muscles flexing beneath my touch. “Creed,” I whisper desperately, a plea to stop, a plea to continue. “You can’t just show up again and…”