Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Ozzy’s fresh from the shower, hair still damp and dark, water droplets clinging to the ends and sliding down the strong column of his neck. One perfect drop traces the line of his collarbone and disappears under the neckline of the thin gray T-shirt that’s molded to every ridge of his chest and abs like it was painted on. Gray sweats hang low on his hips, the drawstring tied loose, and the soft fabric does absolutely nothing to hide the heavy outline of him. He’s not even hard—not fully—but Jesus, the size of him is obscene even at rest. My mouth goes dry. My nipples tighten against the soft cotton of his stolen shirt.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep, and the low timbre vibrates straight between my legs.
“Morning,” I manage, but it comes out breathy. I turn back to the counter fast, pretending to fuss with the sugar I don’t even use, just so I don’t stare. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Every inch of my skin prickles.
He moves behind me to grab a mug, and even though there’s plenty of space, his arm brushes mine. Bare skin on bare skin. Heat flares up my arm and sinks straight into my core. I suck in a quiet breath. He smells like the same soap from last night but warmer now, mixed with the clean scent of his skin still damp from the shower. I want to turn around and bury my face in his chest. I want to lick the water off his neck. I want things I have no business wanting.
We move around the tiny kitchen like we’re dancing around landmines. I pull eggs and bacon from the fridge. He reaches over my head for the skillet, his chest brushing my back for half a second. I nearly drop the carton. He cracks eggs one-handed while I flip the bacon, and every time our hips graze, every time his fingers accidentally touch mine passing the salt, the tension coils tighter. It’s unbearable. Delicious. I can feel how wet I am, the slickness coating my thighs because I’m not wearing anything under this shirt. If he knew, if he just reached down right now and slid his hand up under the hem—
“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice casual, but his eyes flick to my mouth when I answer.
“Yeah,” I lie. “You?”
He gives a low hum that sounds like it’s hiding something. “Not really.”
The words hang there, heavy. I wonder if he dreamed the same things I did. If he woke up hard and aching the way I woke up empty and throbbing.
We eat at the small table by the window. We have scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast slathered in butter. The food is good, but I barely taste it. I’m too aware of his knee brushing mine under the table, the way his forearm flexes when he lifts his fork, the small scar on his knuckle that I suddenly want to trace with my tongue. The sunlight coming through the blinds paints gold stripes across his throat and I want to put my mouth there, suck until I leave a mark.
Halfway through, I can’t take the silence anymore. “You still gonna teach me to throw knives today?”
His eyes lift to mine, dark and intent. A slow smile curves one side of his mouth. “Yeah. After breakfast. Figure you should know how to protect yourself.”
The word protect sends another rush of heat through me. I nod, trying to look normal, but my pulse is hammering so hard I’m sure he can see it in my neck.
We finish eating in charged silence, rinse the dishes side by side at the sink, and then he leads me out back after I get dressed. The safehouse yard is fenced, private, backed by thick trees that block any view from the road. The grass is still damp with morning dew. It’s cool under my bare feet. Ozzy sets up a makeshift target. It’s an old pallet leaned against a tree stump with concentric circles drawn in black marker. He sets up a small table holding six throwing knives. They’re matte black and wickedly sharp.
He picks one up, spins it once in his hand like it weighs nothing, and my stomach flips at how effortlessly lethal he looks. And sexy. I mentioned sexy, right? “First rule,” he says, stepping close behind me. “Balance. Grip it right and it’ll fly true.” His voice is low, right by my ear. “Relax your shoulders.”
I try. I really do. But then he moves in closer, his chest brushing my back, one big hand settling on my hip to steady me while the other wraps around my right hand, guiding my fingers around the knife handle. His palm is warm, callused, huge compared to mine. The heat of him sinks through my thin tank top like it’s not even there.