Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
John: Power out, charged phone in truck, taking kids to my in-laws. Down lines and trees. Gonna head back and work on restoring power. Sorry.
As I sit in my seat, my thoughts go to my stalker. I really hope she isn’t because something’s pulling me to her. The thought of her long blonde hair wrapped around my fist as I thrust my cock into her does nothing to help me sleep. I can’t shake this woman from my mind the entire flight. When I fall asleep, I dream of her taking me deep. Thankfully, rough turbulence jolts me awake before I make a total ass of myself. Shaking my head, I try to remove this woman from my mind.
Needing a drink, I flag down the flight attendant. I’m acting like a damn pervert. At least my dick is facing along the crease in my pants so that no one notices that I’m sporting a hard-on for a woman I don’t know, and I should despise.
Six and a half hours later, I’m at the airport in Montana waiting for my ride. The storm cut off all the power and John is working with the guys to get all the backup generators working, so I take an Uber to the ranch. I had no idea if it would be safe or if there was good cause for concern.
“The roads are terrible right now.”
“Just take it slow.”
“Thanks. People want to rush it, but it’s not worth ending up in a ditch.” All I can think about is my stalker and wondering if she’s still in my home.
“I’m exhausted, and I can’t wait to get home,” I mutter to myself as we pull into the gate. I pay the driver extra because it’s the holidays and I bet he probably had to work yesterday as well.
“Wow, thank you, Mr. Reynolds.” We shake hands and then I take my luggage up the porch steps when I see a cup of coffee on there. I didn’t leave coffee out when I left, did I? Could she still be here?
Maybe one of the guys left it when the power went out, but I wonder what awaits me.
I enter the house, but there are only a couple of candles lit. We have multiple large generators, but I had no idea that they weren’t enough. Only the basic lights work. Most of the house has been rewired so that if a power outage happens, a lower voltage of lights kick in with the generator.
Suddenly, I get a whiff of Italian food in the air. Strange. Setting my luggage off to the side, I follow my nose to the kitchen, trying to figure out who the fuck is in my house. Maybe it’s Louisa, maybe it’s my stalker. I can’t seem to get her out of my head.
I nudge the kitchen door open to see the tiniest little woman with long blonde hair pinned up in a messy bun standing in front of my stove and singing. I believe it’s the same fucking woman who was in my bedroom. A pair of tight black leggings encase her legs, hugging her thighs. She’s wearing a long sweater that acts almost like a dress. One side hangs off her shoulder. The hint of a pink bra strap is visible, and I want to bite that creamy skin between the fabric.
Feeling my cock stiffen in my pants, I groan out, “Fuck.”
“Ah,” she screams, turning with a spoon in her hand. I barely dodge most of the sauce that leaves the spoon with the momentum. “Oh my God. Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
My brows rise up. If she’s my stalker, she should know who I am. Is this a game? Either way, I can’t seem to look away. I take in her fucking sexy face. Wide, bright bluish-grey eyes with dark eyelashes. Her perfectly pouty lips are parted in fear, and I want to kiss them. Will they be sweet, or will they have a hint of a tangy sauce from tasting her food?
A few strands of hair slip out of the bun and frame her round face, adding to her beauty. My heart drums in my chest and then something crazy happens. Suddenly, I see a little girl who looks just like her smiling back at me while cooking in the kitchen with her. Fuck, I’m losing it. Then I remember that I’m supposed to figure out why there’s a sexy angel in my house cooking. God, please don’t tell me she’s a crazy fan turned stalker.
“I’m in my home, as a matter of fact. Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?” I growl out, trying to fight the need to cross the room and dominate her, possess her, making that little imaginary girl.
“I’m Ava. Your new cook,” she remarks, looking at me like I’m a bit lost. Maybe I am, but not for the reasons she may be thinking.