Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
My mouth goes dry. "I'm perfectly capable of—"
"I didn't ask if you were capable." His hand comes up, thumb brushing my bottom lip with surprising gentleness. "I'm telling you how things work here. You eat regular meals. You sleep proper hours. You tell me when something's wrong. That's the price of my protection."
Something hot and unfamiliar coils in my belly. This should feel controlling. Should remind me of David. Instead, it feels like safety with teeth.
"Fine," I whisper, unwilling to give him anymore because this is still strange. And honestly, he is a stranger.
"Okay, glad we got that settled. Now, are you feeling better?" His voice is gravel and smoke.
"Yes." The room is warming with him so close. "Thank you. For everything."
He grunts but doesn’t move. Those eyes—steel blue rimmed with a darker, more dangerous shade like the ocean under the moon—catch the light coming through the window. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I wiggle nervously, running my hands down my flannel-covered calves, his eyes following the movements, and something flashes across his rough features, his jaw muscles moving under the black covering of his beard.
"Those bruises on your wrists. They're not from the river."
My breath catches. I thought the flannel sleeves were long enough...
"No," I admit, more heat climbing up my spine and exploding on my face.
"Name," he demands.
"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm here now."
"Name." Not a request. A command.
I swallow, an instant debate over what to reveal decided when my lips move before my brain can engage. "David. David Mercer."
Jack's breathing slows, a muscle ticking beneath the skin below his left eye. He stands, one hand sliding down his mouth, squeezing its way down his beard before he clears his throat. “That won’t ever happen again.”
The certainty in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it unravels something tight inside my chest. There’s ten seconds of silence that feels like a spring being wound too tight. His nostrils flare, teeth biting into his lower lip as a low rumble grows in his chest.
The air is primed, like runners waiting for the starting gun to go off. Tension mounts in my belly, pressure building in my ears.
Something is about to happen. I wiggle on the sofa cushion, lowering my legs from their flannel prison, crisscrossing them, then following where his eyes are pinned on my chest.
Oh shit.
“Oh, God. Wardrobe malfunction…” A flush creeps like wildfire up my neck as I adjust the popped buttons on his shirt that are giving him full view of my right boob and tightened pink nipple through the brown and black plaid flannel.
"I need to... do... something," he says, abruptly leaving me wide-eyed as he turns and stomps toward a hallway that leads out of the kitchen and toward a closed door. "In the workshop. You rest. I’ll be back."
Did my boob flash send him running? Was it embarrassment or excitement? The recognition sends a thrill through me I can't quite name. I feel powerful, one little nip slip, and I’ve turned the grumpy mountain man on his head.
“Do whatcha gotta do,” I call after him, but he's gone, the door shutting firmly somewhere down the hall as I squeeze those special inside muscles and grit my teeth, which does nothing to stem the warm wetness seeping into his boxers.
The idea that my throbbing girly bits are touching the same cloth where his balls rest is not helping things at all.
I wonder if they have the same size proportions as the rest of him?
God, if so they would be the size of bull balls. I’ve seen bull balls once at the county fair. Why is that the sudden image that pushes me to the edge of an orgasm as visions of them swinging down low between Jack’s legs turn me on in a way I’ve never been before.
I fall back on the cushioned arm of the sofa, pulling a scratchy plaid blanket from the back over me, but I can’t fall asleep. No way.
After twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, counting the knots in the wooden beams, telling myself my father’s best friend is not a turn on, oh no, definitely not… and trying to get that image of the size of his, ahem, out of my head—I can't take it anymore. The silence. The waiting. The not knowing what comes next.
I slip off the couch, padding barefoot across the cabin. The smooth, varnished wooden floor is cool beneath my feet. Everything here is so solid. The house, the floor, the sound…
Jack.
After three years of unknowns and barely hanging on, it feels both confining and like a long-awaited exhale.
I work my way down the hall to where he disappeared, but hesitate at the door at the end, putting my ear against the smooth wood and hearing nothing. Then I turn the handle, ninja style, my inner toddler unable to keep her curiosity from more than likely killing the cat. Or the possum, which around here is far more likely.