Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“No. And you don’t either,” I growl as she turns, staring at my mouth.
I sidestep, reaching out to snatch the bottle away, setting it on the floor by the closet door.
“But—” She looks like I took away her favorite toy, but she’s had enough. I can’t shake the low burning anger in my gut that she’s let a stranger into her room with her half in the bag.
What if that bald asshole had walked her back? Or any of the myriad lecherous locals that had their eye on her back in the bar?
“No buts.” I turn in a slow circle, spotting a six-pack of bottled water on the floor next to an open suitcase. “This is what you can drink.”
I step that way, taking a moment to memorize her scent, the way she makes me feel, all of it. I want to remember all of these moments, because I know this can’t go anywhere, and for the rest of my life I’ll be wishing things could have been different.
What’s one night? One last sendoff…
I crack open the twist-off cap, battling my urges and my conflicted conscience, then hold it to those puckered pink lips. “Drink. You need to hydrate.”
She keeps her lips shut for a beat, but I stand steady, nodding at her to comply, and with a roll of her eyes she draws a swig of the water into her mouth.
“One more,” I say as she blinks, giving me that doe-eyed look that could get her anything she asked for if she really tried.
I hold the bottle up, letting her take a long drink until I’m somewhat satisfied she’s got something other than alcohol in her stomach, then set it on the table next to her bag.
God, she’s fucking gorgeous, standing there with a single drip of the water traversing down her chin. I already know walking out that door is going to be painful. How will I function, knowing she’s out in the world without me?
Seeing other men. Fucking other men.
Christ, no, I don’t want to even imagine that. I’ll choose to believe she’s a fucking nun before I think of her in someone else’s arms.
That first moment I touched her, emotion surged through me, the same intensity as the first time I saw my daughter.
Those deep brown eyes watch me, and even through the alcohol I can see she’s no bimbo. The Daisy Duke stripper outfit aside, this girl is smart and alive. What’s a girl like her doing in Ompotomic, Michigan?
My mouth waters as she toes each of her boots off the opposite foot, then picks them up and sets them neatly next to her open suitcase.
“Isn’t this room great?” she asks, running her finger over a palm-sized, blooming pink rose on the wall.
I draw a breath through my teeth, taking note of her smile, watching her finger trace the petals of the wallpaper rose, imagining it tracing my lips, dancing down my neck, my chest, ending at the straining button of my pants, popping it open, then working the zipper down…
Lost in my progressing fantasy, I realize I didn’t answer her question.
“You’re in it, so yeah, it’s great.” That’s the truth, and from the way she’s biting into her bottom lip, something I said is working for her.
“You look a little out of place.” She steps my way. In her bare feet she’s a couple inches shorter than in the bar and our size difference is almost ridiculous.
My pulse hammers as I tell myself to step back and ball it out that door, but my feet are stuck rock solid on the pink and green rose-patterned rug.
I curse my moral compass, because all I want to do is drag this precious morsel over to that floral nightmare of a bed, rip off those shorts, and destroy that tart cherry like a wrecking ball.
I’d nut in three strokes, I’m sure. I’d fill her like a fucking bull.
“There’s a bed,” she chirps, with a little teasing sashay of her hips, and sweat trickles down my spine. Our proximity to a bed has my windpipe clogging with all the filthy things I want to say to her.
“Yeah, you should get in it,” I grumble, already knowing my heart has signed on the dotted line with this girl and the memory of her will haunt me to my grave.
“I should, you’re right. You should lay down with me. My big brother could tell me a story while I fall asleep.” She slides her hand down the flat of her chest, jiggling back and forth, and I can’t tell if it’s the booze or her just being a tease.
I bet it’s both.
“I should go,” I hear myself say as her eyes start to flutter, her head swings around on her neck like a bobblehead, knees buckling. Jesus, she’s passing out. I lunge forward my hand slipping around her middle as I groan and my eyes devour her fertile body before she hits the floor.