Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
She doesn’t sound as curt as she did in the kitchen, but something’s wedged up her ass.
I stride through the room, snatch the scissors from her hand, and toss them aside. “What’s with the sour mood?”
“Your asshole reflex must be contagious.”
“Don’t put this on me. Take accountability for your own attitude and actions.”
She sniffs and leans back. Then her shoulders sag. “You’re right.”
When she doesn’t elaborate, I bend down and stare at her from an inch away, with my hands braced on the mattress on either side of her hips.
I want to hear what she’s thinking, feeling. Because I love talking to her. She’s more like me than anyone I know. It’s the wildness in her, the uncultivated way she views the world.
She isn’t bound by social constructs and doesn’t exert energy on outward appearances. Everything that matters to her resides in the space between the earth and her soul.
She’s guided by feelings and instinct where I’m led by cool logic, but we share the same desire for the right result in the end.
Peering up at me with deep brown eyes, she scrapes her teeth across her bottom lip and sighs. “I got a little twisted up in my head when I went to bed. You’re just so…ugh! One minute I think you like me. The next you hate me. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care, but I made the decision to stay here and work on a plan that involves you. After you pushed me away last night, I thought…”
“I wouldn’t help.”
She lifts a shoulder. “You send a lot of mixed signals.”
“Come with me.” I push off the bed and stride out of the room.
My insides quiver with curiosity as I follow Lorne down the hall and into Jarret’s room. He slips into the walk-in closet and spins the combination lock on the floor-to-ceiling safe.
When it opens, he removes a shotgun and a pistol and checks them both for bullets.
I bite the inside of my cheek. He’s not supposed to handle firearms, even if they’re empty.
The moment I have that thought, he thrusts the biggest gun into my arms.
Surprised by the heavy weight, I adjust my grip, jostling it in an attempt to properly hold it.
He grabs the barrel and shoves it downward, his voice smacking like a hammer. “Never point a gun at my fucking face.”
“I just watched you check the chamber—”
“Always treat every gun like it’s loaded.”
My neck stiffens. I treated John’s gun as loaded, and we know how that turned out.
Gathering several boxes of ammunition, he locks the safe and lumbers back to his suite. “Keep your finger off the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot.”
I jerk my hand away from the trigger guard and aim the shotgun down, gripping it awkwardly as I trail behind him.
He recites a dozen other safety rules in a rumbling, emotionless voice.
Be aware of my target and what’s behind it. Understand the mechanical characteristics of the gun I’m using. Don’t depend on the gun’s safety to keep it from firing…
As he drones on, I realize my training has begun.
In the bedroom, he crouches on the floor and breaks down both weapons into a panoply of metal parts. Then he reassembles them in a blur of motion, his huge hands moving with confidence as he explains how to fit each piece back together.
“Your turn.” He takes them apart again.
“I’ll never remember all that.”
“Then by all means, go back to doing what you’re good at.” He gives my body a deliberate up and down glower of judgment.
“You’re a cocksucker, you know that?”
“No, darlin’. That is one thing I am not.” He tosses off his hat and reaches behind him to yank his shirt over his head, baring the sculpted monolith of his torso. “I want those guns back together by the time I’m out of the shower.”
The only guns holding my attention are the ones bulging and flexing from his shoulders. He’s an eight-pack man with a sparse smattering of hair across square pecs that look hard enough to bounce bullets.
One would think with all that bulk that he’d be plodding around with stiff, lead-footed movements. But as he rises from his crouch, his hand falls to his belt buckle and the line of his body flows upward in a loose, sinuous roll of hips and abs.
It’s an alluring crunch of upper body strength with the nimble sensuality of a male stripper.
His boots come together as he straightens. His chin dips down, and hell to the damn… The bunching of denim around his fly creates an enticing bulge, one that’s undeniably filled to the extent of its seams.
I openly gawk as he ambles away, toeing off his boots and removing his belt. Surely, he’s not going to…
Yep. He shoves down his jeans and briefs, kicks them aside, and strolls to the master bathroom unabashedly nude.