Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24894 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 124(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24894 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 124(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Roman Graves is a professional killer who never misses.
And apparently, I’m his first exception.
My dad owes the wrong man two million dollars, and I’m the price he’s supposed to pay.
Roman had me in his sights.
His finger on the trigger.
But he couldn’t do it.
Now the man who came to end my life is determined to save it—even if that means kidnapping me, hiding me away, and refusing to let me out of his sight. I should be terrified, but there’s just one problem.
Roman is exactly the kind of man I’ve spent years secretly fantasizing about.
Possessive. Dominant. And completely obsessed with me.
And the more he takes control, the harder it becomes to remember that I’m supposed to want to escape.
Because Roman Graves may have been hired to make me his victim…
But he’s decided I belong to him instead.
An over-the-top, human-written Instalove featuring age-gap, an obsessed and possessive alpha, virgin heroine, forced proximity, dangerous protector, praise/good-girl fantasy with no cheating, a heart-warming happily-ever-after, and epilogue!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
ROMAN
My rifle is aimed at her window. My scope is sighted in.
I’m in an empty building across the street, lying prone on a plywood table, the barrel of my Remington 700 resting on a sandbag that will absorb any recoil. The lights around me are out. No cameras outside. I did my research and showed up early.
You have to prepare if you want to be successful in a job like this and not end up dead or in prison for the rest of your life.
I’m a bad man. A hitman who’s killed men for hundreds of thousands of dollars or sometimes even just hundreds of dollars. Tonight, I’m being paid ten grand to kill a nineteen-year-old girl because her dad owes my boss money. Two million bucks, to be exact.
A blurry photo of her sits beside me. Annie Mercer, receptionist at an art studio. That’s all I know. Anything more would humanize her. But to me, she’s not a human. She’s just another target. Just another job.
Her dad, Chuck Mercer, burned through the money my boss leant him and then disappeared. Must be an idiot to cross Jimmy the loan shark. Surely he had to know the consequences.
“If Mercer wants to disappear, I’ll give him something to come home for.”
An hour later, I had an address and a photo, and half my fee was in my overseas account.
I didn’t ask questions. In this business, questions get you killed. I don’t ask, I don’t hesitate. I just do my job. And that’s why I’m alive today.
My breath is steady, controlled. My heart rate is low. Something else that’s absolutely necessary in this line of work is patience. You must be willing to wait for that exact moment, the precise instant where you squeeze the trigger.
From my research, I know that Annie finishes her shift at the studio at seven. From there, she stops for a coffee and a blueberry muffin, then generally makes it home by seven-thirty. Today, she was three minutes early. I watched her pull up in her green Camry. She stepped out, covered by a red raincoat, and raced into her building.
But it’s been twenty minutes now, and her bedroom is still empty. Like I said, patience.
I move my eye from the glass for a second to stretch my neck, and just like that, Annie finally enters the room. It’s go time.
Target acquired. Safety off.
I bring my eye back to the scope. My index finger slides gently over the trigger, just as it has countless times. This is it. The end of her life and the rest of my money. I take a deep breath, hold…
But then, something unexpected happens.
Annie turns, and her face comes into view. Seeing her at this magnification—it’s like she’s standing right in front of me. And she’s stunning. Glowing with natural beauty and scorchingly sexy at the same time. A thousand times more beautiful than the blurry photo Jimmy provided.
She turns on her bedside lamp, giving me an even better view of her. Wet hair from a shower, bare, slim legs, an oversized T-shirt, and a tiny pair of cream-colored panties. I don’t care about women. I can’t afford attachments in my line of work. But as I move my crosshair over her center mass, an unfamiliar feeling invades my mind.
Her tits are almost too big for her body, causing her shirt to hang loosely off their teardrop curves. Her lips are perfectly plump, a nice soft pink. She looks like a sexy, innocent angel that was sent specifically to fuck up my job. She has no idea that there’s a brutal killer watching through her window.
Slowly, I let my breath out. I’m not here to get an eyeful of a half-naked girl. I’m here to do a job.