Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
I swallowed. Hard.
I was tempted to tell him I’d quit my freaking job if it meant I could see his eyes easy and light like that, watch him laugh. But of course I didn’t. I wasn’t that far gone.
Yet.
So I went upstairs, once more ignoring the persistent ache in my body at making the trek that pushed my muscles to the edge.
I pulled my cardigan on, my hands shaking as I did up the buttons. Checked that I had everything in my purse. Swiped on some more lip gloss. Took three deep breaths. Checked that I had turned all appliances and lights off.
Even in my fluster, that was one thing I would never forget to do. It wasn’t full-on OCD—I’d been checked for that—just another part of my need to make sure everything was orderly. That there was less of a chance of anything else in my life being destroyed. I was terrified of leaving the wrong switch on, forgetting to turn off the stove and coming home to see my entire sanctuary in flames.
Once I was satisfied, I made it to the bottom of the stairs, my purse on my shoulder and my muscles screaming at me for not treating them with the care they required.
I held out my hand to Gage. “Give me one second. I’ll take the coffee cup upstairs. Then we’ll go.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “But this isn’t me giving in, just so we’re clear. This is me being professional and caring about my job. I’m not going to be late because I have to argue with you on my doorstep. It is not the beginning of a habit.” I was pretty sure I was saying that to myself as much as to him.
Gage didn’t speak, merely pushed off the door, staring at me.
I struggled not to squirm under his gaze.
“I got the mug, babe,” he said finally.
I frowned, both loving and hating the idea of him being in my apartment. He would imprint his presence. I’d never be able to forget that he’d been there, even if it was the only time.
“I thought you had some strong reservations toward entering my home,” I said, not moving to let him pass.
“I had some strong reservations toward entering your home with you inside it and the number of surfaces available for me to fuck you on,” he growled. “So that’s why you’re gonna stay the fuck at the bottom of the stairs, because you’ve been comin’ up and down too much as it is. You’re hurtin’. Don’t want you hurtin’ more just because you want to take up my coffee cup. So I got the mug, babe.”
My stomach was little more than jelly at his words.
“The number of surfaces available for me to fuck you on.”
I had stepped aside before I actually realized I did so. And I realized right around the time his body brushed past mine, my nipples standing at attention underneath my cotton bra.
He grasped my chin, lifting my face to meet his gaze. “And you’re already doin’ enough in your fuckin’ sexy-as-shit librarian outfit you’ve got going on to make me seriously consider hiking up that fucking skirt and taking you against the wall,” he rasped. “Only thing stoppin’ me is the prospect of you hurtin’ more, and not in the way I’m gonna hurt you when I do finally sink into that sweet pussy. So how about you wait outside so I don’t forget that by the time I come downstairs?”
He kept his grasp on my chin as I blinked at him, my eyes lazy, my entire body humming.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He nodded once, eyes on my lips. There was a pause, one I was sure would be followed by a kiss.
And I was sure that would be followed by him hiking up my skirt and fucking me against the wall.
And I would let him.
But then he let me go, and all I saw was the patch on the back of his cut staring at me in accusation. As if the fabric knew I didn’t belong there. That I wasn’t made for the man inside that cut.
Or maybe you are. Maybe that’s why it’s staring at you, a voice whispered. Because it sees all those dark and depraved thoughts you’ve hidden in the shadows of your mind.
I shook my head, physically that time because Gage was out of sight.
Then I stepped into the fresh and salty air, needing something to clear my head, to cool my body. To calm my heart.
I stared at the bike on the curb in front of me.
All black. Chrome detailing—I’d looked it up.
A Harley. Obviously.
There were two saddlebags on either side at the back of it.
A replica of the Sons of Templar patch was painted onto the fuel tank, a grim reaper bearing a sword, riding on a road of skulls.