Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I’m the biggest, most real threat to this woman. She needs protecting from me.
It’s guaranteed I’ll hurt her. I’m a danger to her. Her father won’t be happy about this, and Lucinda might wring my fucking neck. No emotional connection with your subject. It’s rule number-fucking-one. It distorts your purpose and hampers your duty. It also gets you swiftly ejected from the agency. But shit, there’s a whole lot of emotion running rampant through me right now, and I’m powerless to stop it. Feeling powerless isn’t something I deal with well. I need my purpose. My purpose is my job. What I’ve just done could lose me that. I’ll be in an empty, black pit once again. No purpose. Just nightmares.
I clench my eyes shut and lift my hips, pulling myself free of her warmth, all the time ignoring the sense of loss that fills me with every inch I withdraw. Her sleepy mumbles of protest would be like sweet music to my ears…if I wasn’t currently in mental turmoil.
What the fuck have I done?
I roll off her to my back and stare up at the ceiling, my palm resting on my pumping chest. The urge to pick up my gun and sink a bullet into my skull is tempting. So is my urge to get dressed, get my bag, and walk out.
But then she’ll be unprotected.
Who the fuck is going to protect her from me? Who’s going to warn her off, tell her I’m no good for her? I know exactly who. Me. I should.
My head falls to the side as she shifts next to me, and I find her sprawled on her back, her blond hair fanning the pillow and her arms flopped limply above her head. She’s snoozing, her face nuzzled into the crook of her upper arm. She looks like a fucking angel. Sweet, innocent, and vulnerable.
Mine.
“Motherfucker,” I breathe, pushing myself up urgently before I give in to my instinct and pull her into my side. I sit on the edge of the bed, my elbows resting on my knees, and let my face fall into my palms.
“Jake.” Her sweet voice is sleepy and broken, but the velvet edge still licks across my naked skin, making me shudder. I look over my shoulder and find those gorgeous eyes half-open, watching me.
“Go to sleep, Cami.” My response is automatic, and so is my need to touch her. I turn a little and reach for her face, pushing some golden wisps of hair from her creamy cheeks. She hums and nuzzles into my touch, her eyes closing.
And my fucking heart shatters on me. Screwing up my face in agony and despair, I rip my hand away from her face and rise to my feet, battling the rampant impulse to climb into bed and hold her all night.
Distance.
I need distance. Or as much distance as I can get when I’m shadowing someone. I sit in the chair by the window, my big body arguing with my brain’s decision to put it there. It’s a small chair, more for decorative purposes than for a big, meaty bloke like me to try to get comfortable in. Which isn’t fucking likely. I shift one way and then the other, until I’m somewhere close to comfy, my arse on the edge of the seat to allow me to recline as much as possible, my legs extended and crossed at the ankles. It’ll do. I’ve endured a lot worse.
Planting an elbow on the arm, I fist my hand and wedge it under my jaw.
And I watch her.
All night long.
And with each minute that passes, my regret intensifies.
* * *
I’ve always survived on little sleep. I’m just wired that way. Exhaustion isn’t a term I’m familiar with, so how I’m feeling right now is alien. I feel fucking drained. Wiped out completely. I also have a bastard of a headache. All in all, I feel like shit. Not even my good friend Jack Daniel’s has the ability to make me feel this weary.
I’ve been sitting here for six hours watching her sleep. It’s been the most pleasurable and confusing time in my existence. I’ve cursed more times under my breath than I care to admit. Fuck, no, I will admit it. It can’t make matters any worse than they already are.
And matters are bad. Fucking awful, in fact. My conscience is telling me to leave before she wakes and hope she thinks it was all a dream, and a deep-rooted possessiveness I never knew existed is telling me to wrap her up tightly in cotton wool and keep her forever.
The conflict is fucking with my head, making it impossible to align my thoughts and reason. I’ve skipped through my possible replacements, anyone I trust to take over the assignment and guard her like I can. There are a few possibilities—all experienced and renowned bodyguards. But none as good as me, though I fear my own judgment is being challenged. I think back over the past few days, in particular to the bloodbath I created in the ladies’ restroom last night.