Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
He doesn't seem shocked to find me standing there looking at him. If anything, he looks a little intrigued by my sudden appearance, a challenge of sorts in his eyes.
I open my mouth to tell him he needs to quit this shit because blaming him for just existing seems like the right thing to do. It doesn't matter that I was the one to lean in and press my lips to his last night, or that I walked in here without permission. He's the temptation, and if he weren't here, I could still convince myself that I was never attracted to him, not years ago, and certainly not now.
I close my mouth, incapable of making any sound when I see his nipples tighten, either from the cold or my attention. The straining of his growing erection against the thin towel has me opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water. As big of a fool as I feel standing here right now just gawking at him, I can't seem to turn away.
"Top or bottom?" I blurt, my eyes growing wide at the sound of my voice.
That's not what I was supposed to say at all! I should've mentioned the meeting or told him that last night's kiss was a mistake.
Top or bottom? Who in their right mind blurts shit like that out?
I'm having some sort of existential crisis, and he has the fucking audacity to let a slow smile spread across his face before he speaks.
"Verse," he answers, his teeth scraping over his bottom lip, and I swear I feel the attention right on the tip of my cock. "You?"
"Huh?" I manage like an idiot, my eyes slow to pull from the front of his towel. Then my attention gets diverted once again to the droplets of water glistening on his abdomen and chest.
"Top or bottom?" he asks, a hint of humor in his voice.
I shake my head, my very first instinct to deny any sort of want or need in that capacity.
"I don't know," I answer honestly, my eyes lifting to his.
His smile grows even wider, and it hits me like a sledgehammer to my chest how much I always needed to see his face light up like that when we were younger. Seeing it now doesn't piss me off the way it did years ago. I didn't exactly hate it then, but I hated how much I enjoyed it, how much it calmed me down, how much I ached for it on the really bad days.
I dip my head in agreement before my brain catches up. I hold out my hand when he takes a step forward, my sense of responsibility trying to come back online after he made my brain glitch.
"What's that?" he asks, seeing the note in my hand.
He takes a step closer, just enough to read it. An urgency to be closer to him nearly wins out, but when he takes a step back, his face is all business.
Old feelings of never being good enough, of always coming in last place, threaten to fill me.
Zayne is a man on a mission to eradicate the world of people like the ones his sister got involved with, and I shouldn't be upset that his focus is on that type of work rather than spending a little time with me. Knowing that doesn't make those feelings of being second best go away completely.
"This is a good sign," he says, his towel falling to the floor with a flick of his right hand. "Another meeting so soon is a good sign."
"They could be planning to kill us," I say, my eyes drifting down his body once again, not an ounce of fear of it happening in my voice. I'm too distracted to worry about imminent death.
"No one connected to the club has been charged with murder," he says, his hand wandering down his chest to his cock. "Except that one guy, but it was a bar brawl."
"So they aren't capable of murder?" I manage, my own cock straining in my jeans as I watch him grip the base of his own.
"Oh, I have no doubt that they're capable of it," he says, releasing his cock and walking toward his dresser as if he isn't the biggest fucking tease in the world. "I just think they'd spend more time than they've had since we got home planning it if that's the direction they're wanting to go."
I watch without hesitation as he grabs his clothes from the dresser, tossing them on the bed before scooping back up his towel and using it to finish drying off.
As if he knows I need what he's offering, he turns to face me as he dresses. He isn't exactly putting on a show, but knowing that makes it seem no less of a performance.