Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“Good luck,” Imani calls and disappears into the crowd before I can object.
The lights flash in time with the music, turning the dance floor into a pulsing rainbow of sweaty writing bodies. At the bar, Daryl, the barman, is mixing more Red Devil cocktails, and there’s a free stool at the end just waiting to accept my ample ass. I glance around but the coast is clear, and I imagine the girls from the restrooms have already sunk their eager claws into Jacob and his brothers.
Before I can order another drink, a shadow looms over the bar from behind me, and I turn to find Jacob Drayton in all his imposing glory.
Jacob Drayton, who’s bound for NHL superstardom.
Jacob Drayton, whose name rests on the lips of women who are far more deserving of his attention than me.
Jacob Drayton, who was a mean little shit.
Jacob Drayton, who isn’t supposed to be interested in me.
“You’re standing a little close there, bud,” I say, meeting his icy blues. This close, they make his eye sockets look almost empty, like a weird alien or android in a sci-fi movie. It doesn’t take away from his beauty, though. With one rake down his body, my vision blurs at his perfection; tight black shirt stretched over a very nice chest, broad shoulders that obliterate the view of the club behind him, bulging arms constricted by intricate serpent tattoos that look like medieval armor, and strong thighs that power some of the fastest skating I’ve ever witnessed in real life. For all my denial, Jacob Drayton flicks a switch on my arousal that makes me instantaneously heavy and achy between my thighs, and a little lightheaded, truth be told.
He grins knowingly, flashing one dimple. “Most women enjoy sharing my body heat.”
“Well, I’m not most women, so back yourself up.”
His straight, sandy brown eyebrow rises, and an amused glint lights up his eyes. When he smiles, the darkness leaves his face, but it’s a calculated shift, not a genuine one because when my hand rests against his rock-hard, very warm chest to nudge him back, his eyes narrow.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Miss I’m-not-interested-in-players. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
“Oh, you’re interested.” He leans in closer, staring into my eyes. “Your pupils are wide and…” His gaze zeroes in on my mouth. “Your lips are parted.” He presses a finger to my bottom lip, leaving it there for a few seconds. “And you’re flushed.”
I pull back, putting the last bit of distance between us that I can manage without falling off my stool. “It’s darker than Satan’s armpit in here and hotter. And my mouth is gaping at your arrogant ass.”
Undeterred, he rests a hand on the bar, so close to my boob that his heat and strength radiate through the clingy fabric of my dress. “I bet if I ran my hands between your thighs, you’d be wet for me.”
“Jesus,” I gasp, folding my arms across my chest. His eyes drop to my mega cleavage like a sniper zoning in on a target. “You really don’t have a problem with self-love, do you?”
He grins like I just gave him a compliment. “You know, you look familiar. Have we fucked?”
“Way to make a girl feel special.”
“Yeah, I’d remember if I fucked that sweet ass.”
“You okay here?” Daryl asks from behind the bar. “Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the distraction. “I’ll take another Red Devil and some hockey jackass repellent spray.”
Behind Jacob, two other enormous figures loom, coming into view over his shoulders. He stands taller, putting distance between us so I can finally breathe.
“You striking out over here?” Shawn asks, cocking his head to one side. When we were kids, he’d always wear his hair longer, as if he wanted to distance himself from his brothers and find some individuality. Now, the major difference between them is Shawn’s lack of arm tattoos and the scar that bisects Jacobs’s right eyebrow. Oh, and the butterfly stitches that are currently holding the skin of Jacobs’s cheekbone together after his punch up on the ice.
“She looks familiar, right?”
“She? You didn’t even get a name yet.”
Jacob blanches at his brother’s snickering. I guess his ego isn’t as bulletproof as he’d like people to believe.
“She’s playing hard to get.”
“Not playing.” I suck my cocktail through the black plastic straw, groaning at the deliciousness of it, and pull out my purse.
“You didn’t even buy her a drink? Losing your touch?” Hayes says. His voice is a lower rumble, and his shoulders out-bulk his brothers by a couple of inches. He’s like the cuckoo in the nest who stole the most food and outgrew the rest of the baby birds. With shorter hair and a bruise the size of my fist on his neck, he exudes a roughness that I didn’t expect. As a kid, Hayes was the quiet one with the watchful eyes. He’d try to keep up with his brothers, but he always lagged behind.