Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
With a knowing chuckle, he grabs my hand.
“Or maybe I just got lucky with the right rock. We’ll never know. Come on, darlin’, I’m getting mighty hungry. Time for steaks and hash browns.”
“I’m making us a salad. I’m not going to die here from protein and carb overload,” I say, playfully pushing at his side.
Quinn whips out another slayer smile.
Even if he does it a thousand times, I swear, I’ll never get sick of that look.
Oh, and as for the food...yes, I’m hungry, but I’d forgo ever eating again in a heartbeat to do more than hold his hand.
14
Goat Me All Riled (Faulkner)
I had to be out of my mind to agree to this—having Tory Three Names move in with me.
Ridge might as well have tossed me in one of his Western flicks and cast me as the idiot who gets tied to a pole with fire ants crawling up his pants.
That can’t be more tortuous than spending whole days with the girl I’ve jacked off to since before I could drink.
Shit. I’m as horny as a quarterback watching the cheerleaders.
Make that cheerleader, singular.
Just one.
But even that ain’t right.
Tory’s a full-blown, sexy-as-all-hell dancer who can do a whole lot more with her body than an entire cheer squad.
Of course she has dynamite legs. I’ve been staring at them all day, tracing how they run up into that supple peach of an ass.
I try to end my creepin’ there, before my eyes slide up her spine, turn her around, and find those tits I want to shove my face in and own.
Don’t fucking care if she’s not the bustiest gal in the world.
What she’s packing is enough for ten lifetimes, and if I don’t find some goddamn self-control, I’m gonna rip that flimsy outfit right off her and see what she’s been hiding.
As soon as we got home from checking on the goats this morning, she’d changed out of her jeans and boots, into a pair of white shorts, a lime-green tank top, and flip-flops to paint in.
She’d still been wearing her flip-flops on our walk, and not wanting her to slip on the rocks or fallen logs, I’d taken her hand as we’d followed the creek to the pond.
That simple touch, holding her hand for balance, almost burned me down.
And sparring with her by the pond, fighting over rocks?
Fuck.
I think I’ve reverted back to caveman, and I’m still trying to remember how to talk as we work on dinner.
“Do you want tomatoes in your salad?” she asks through the screen door.
I’m just as surprised as anybody my fridge now houses vegetables. So much green and red I think I see Christmas every time I open the door. Even a couple eggplants.
“If you do,” I call back, checking the grill.
She’s silent for a moment, then asks, “What about kale?”
“We bought kale? Was I drunk?”
Laughing, she pushes open the door and takes a swig off a beer bottle, one from the case we’d also picked up on our shopping trip.
“Psych! I was just testing you.” She hands me the beer, winks, and saunters back inside. “I’ll buy some next time I’m at the store, though. You’re not getting off that easy.”
I take a long pull off the beer, hating how her lips make it taste better than it should.
Then I go back to flipping the steaks, trying to deduce whether I’m more pissed at my poor blue balls or the fact that I’ll be eating kale before this is over.
Damn, I need to switch gears. Whip my thoughts back in line to a place that doesn’t involve picturing Tory bouncing on my cock, but it’s damn near impossible.
Especially when I think about the curve of her ass in those shorts as she turned after sassing me.
Welcome to hell. Population: me.
I can’t even think straight.
I’m a raving beast.
Like down by the pond, when she looked at me with those baby blue eyes brighter than a desert sky.
They’re as gorgeous as the rest of her, and just as likely to tempt me into signing my soul away.
Owl lets out a sharp bark from beside the grill.
Huh?
Oh, shit!
I yank the steaks out of the flames just in the nick of time and set them on the side of the grill.
“Thanks, dude,” I tell the dog. “You’ll have some extra meat on the T-bone in your dish tonight. I promise.”
He wags his bush of a tail, flopping his tongue out.
“What are you two talking about out there?” Tory asks from the kitchen window.
“The steaks. Next time I’m buying three.”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty for him. Those are two of the biggest steaks I’ve ever seen.”
“They’ll be the best steaks you’ve ever tasted, too,” I tell her.
“Promises, promises,” she says, laughing as her face disappears.
I’d damn well like to make a few other promises we could only fulfill in the bedroom.