Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Despite her defense of him—which had been a knee-jerk reaction to Trystan’s contempt—Iris had never truly aspired to emulate the man who’d fathered her by following exactly in his footsteps. She was seeking legitimacy, and if she did follow this path she wanted to be perceived as a journalist with ethics and integrity.
She pushed to her feet, but her heel skidded on the slick surface of the spa bottom and she lost her balance.
He went from sitting to standing in a second, his strong arms closing around her from behind before she even registered how close she’d come to falling and possibly striking her head on the side of the small heated pool.
His lightning-fast reflexes saved her and—while her brain played catch-up with what could have happened—her body reacted to all that sexy, hot, naked flesh pressed up against her back.
Her breath stuttered in her chest, and her already hard nipples contracted even more, while heat and moisture pooled between her legs. She instinctively clenched her thighs and arched closer to his hard heat.
But when her common sense finally caught up with her shameless body, a mere second later, she gasped in humiliation and attempted to extract herself from his tight hold. Hoping against hope he hadn’t noticed her embarrassing reaction to his nearness.
He didn’t let her go, though. His strong arms remained clamped around her upper body, pinning her own arms to her side, his chest plastered against her back, his groin pushed up against the small of her back.
He was panting in her ear, harsh, gasping breaths, as if he’d overexerted himself, which made no sense, since he’d gone completely still after the short, rapid burst of movement to catch her.
“Let go of me,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth, but he remained silent while his hoarse breathing finally leveled out, becoming more even and quieter.
He relaxed his hold, releasing her arms, one large, capable hand drifting down to spread over her torso, while the other dropped to her waist.
“You okay?” he asked, his breath fluttering against the curls at her temple.
“I will be when you let me go.” Her voice was husky, unconvincing, and she barely suppressed a moan when the hand at her torso stroked soothing circles over her sensitive flesh.
He was still pressed intimately close to her, so it was impossible to miss the stirring against the small of her back. Was he… getting hard?
Before she could figure it out, he released his grip and stepped away from her. She turned quickly, but he was already seated, and watching her with that focused, intent expression back on his face.
“Sit down.”
Folding her arms defensively over her stupidly achy nipples, Iris refused to comply and glared down at him with a defiant tilt of her jaw.
“No. I’m ready to go back to my prison cell.”
God, she couldn’t think of anything she wanted less, but he’d touched a nerve. She was such a confused mess, following in the footsteps of a father she really did not respect at all, wanting to show him up, and prove to the world that she was a better person than he’d been. It was fucked up… she was fucked up. Out here trapped in the middle of nowhere, in pursuit of a dream she didn’t believe in. And did not want.
She needed space to sort through her cluttered brain, and she needed to be out of Trystan Abbott’s disturbing company. She couldn’t think when he was around and actively antagonizing her.
His lips twitched and his eyes—still fixed on her face—flickered.
“I’ve read some of your work,” he said, ignoring her demand. “What little there is of it.”
His words surprised her as she had no body of work readily available on the Internet. In fact, she had nothing out there for public consumption that she could think of off the top of her head and wasn’t sure to what he was referring.
“What work?”
“There’s the poetry you wrote for your university paper.”
“Oh my God.” She sank back onto the seat and covered her face with her hands. She couldn’t believe that any of those abysmal poems were actually available online. They were truly awful and dripping with teenaged angst and despair. “I thought they’d all been taken down.”
“The Internet is forever, Miss Hughes.” It was the first time he’d actually said her name. She’d honestly believed he’d forgotten it until he’d dropped those truth bombs about her father.
“So, it seems.”
“For a budding journalist, you have surprisingly little content online, not a smart move. No blogs, vlogs, TikTok, Instagram. Other people your age are gagging to reveal their every shallow opinion to the world. Someone with your… ambitions should be even keener to share every puerile thought.”
This was better—it felt like familiar territory. Iris relaxed marginally, slumping against the wall of the spa and allowing herself to enjoy the soothing jets once more. Maybe she should continue to nurse her outrage over what he’d said earlier, but Iris never could maintain a good mad. She was too cheerful and optimistic for that. Besides, it was hard to remain angry when she agreed with so much of what he’d said about her father.