Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
The way her ass felt under my hands.
The small, raspy noise she made.
The feast I had laid out in front of me, so easy to devour.
Damn.
I drag a hand through my hair, whispering, “We’re not going there, you idiot.”
She’s my boss’ granddaughter. Almost an extension of him.
She’s also old enough to be my kid sister, hell, practically my own daughter.
Too young to consider in my dirtiest, most depraved fantasies.
I watched her grow up. I guided her when she was a teenager.
I dealt with her at her worst, being the voice of stone-cold reason I had to be.
There’s no earthly reason I should look at her and see anything besides the little troublemaker she used to be.
Only, spending this time glued to her reminds me that she’s not a teenage brat anymore.
That’s no excuse.
I can’t afford to let my cock start calling the shots. This situation is too delicate for that, a minefield sure to blow me up the second I misstep.
Her buttery moan replays in my mind like a song. The way she moved in, drunk on pure instinct, like she wanted me to touch her, kiss her, crave her.
But she wasn’t even fucking awake.
I’m sick.
What kind of man takes advantage of a woman while she’s out? When she’s relying on him to keep her safe?
I won’t be that asshole, no.
Even if her body wants me that way, it’s up to me to say no. I have to be the older, wiser, reasonable one.
I won’t shoot our lives to shit with a preventable mistake in the heat of the moment.
Eventually, as the full horror sets in, the lust fades. No more temptation.
I can’t feel half my body when I finally switch off the water and wipe frigid drops from my face.
All I have to do is walk up and act natural.
Pretend I didn’t try to fuck her through the bed just because she woke up next to me, soft and warm and feminine.
I should’ve risked wrecking my back on that sofa instead.
Obviously, I didn’t think this one-bed thing through.
By the time I emerge from the bathroom, I’m chilled to the bone, but at least I’m dressed and halfway in my right mind. We hope.
“Holden,” she mumbles from the bed.
I tense. “Yeah? You okay?”
“I feel kinda crappy. Too much wine.” She groans and I hear the blankets rustling. “Could you get me some water?”
“Sure. Stay put.” And preferably covered up so I don’t have to see her in her pajamas. From experience, they show more than they hide, and I can’t deal with that right now.
I fetch her a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge and return a second later.
“Here you go,” I say. Her fingers brush mine as I hand her the bottle.
She’s so sleepy as she takes it, her cinnamon hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes big and heavy. Violet-blue skies, glowing with wonder.
It almost knocks me breathless again.
The less time I spend with her, the better. Until I get my head on straight.
“Thanks,” she croaks. “You’re the best.”
Woman, I’m filth.
If she knew just half of what I was thinking ten damn minutes ago, how tempted I was to do a whole lot fucking more than kiss her, she wouldn’t want to be in the same room with me.
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” I grind out. Then I turn back around and march out to the balcony.
Air. I need air.
Outside, it’s raining, just a soft morning shower sweeping in from the sea and misting the city.
The cool breeze and the earthy smell from below help clear my head.
If only they could keep Cleo Blackthorn the hell out permanently.
Keeping my distance from Cleo is harder than I thought.
I think I’d have an easier time wearing a suit made of bees.
My first instinct is to make sure she’s all right, so when I see her stumbling around the apartment looking for aspirin, I have to force myself to stay where I am, planted outside with my laptop in the sunlight.
And later, again when she’s curled up with her sketch pad, her mouth pursed as she draws, her nimble fingers moving furiously over paper.
I have a blinding urge to find out what has her so inspired.
That’s what I tell myself anyway as I watch her stop to breathe and sip from a water bottle. Soft music plays from a Bluetooth speaker next to her, and she uses her bottle like a microphone, quietly singing along to some Lana Del Rey song.
Not quietly enough.
My lips turn up. She’s just as bad a singer as when she was a kid.
I hide my smile behind another cup of coffee.
At least it saves her from compulsively checking her phone, waiting for any word from Fairfax.
I know she’s waiting on tenterhooks. It kills me to be sitting out here, pretending to work just so I can avoid her, when I know she needs me.