Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"I like bad," I whispered, my hand tightening, his hips fucking his cock into my grip.
"God, woman." He stretched across my body and yanked at the handle of the bedside table, his hands knocking over items in his haste. "I don't know what to do with you."
"Really?" I teased. "You don't know what to do with me?"
"Correct that," he rumbled, lifting off me just long enough to put on a condom, his hands slightly shaking in his urgency. "I know exactly what to do with you."
Then he was back atop me, and then he was inside of me, and then he showed me exactly what his plans entailed.
Chapter 11
Jillian and I engaged in a silent battle, one where she pushed in every passive-aggressive way she could, campaigning with all her strength against the relationship that Brant and I were forming. It was a battle without words, but through the man she loved, and I had fallen for.
I met her next roadblock on a Tuesday morning which was dedicated on my calendar to HYA. Pulling through the organization’s painted red gates, I was greeted by a shiny male specimen, complete with a genuine six-pack, blinding white smile, and rugged good looks that a model scout would trip over herself to snag. He jogged across the grass, lines of dirt smeared across the ripped muscles of his chest, a trio of kids tailing after him, their arms outstretched for the football he carried. I watched him run toward me and wondered who he was and what he was doing inside the HYA sanctuary.
Employees and volunteers at HYA were carefully vetted. Background checks, drug tests, and references were required. We'd had the same staff, give or take, for the six years I’d been involved. A new face wasn’t often seen and was typically discussed well before recruitment. I parked in one of the volunteer spots and watched as his head lifted, his hand raising in greeting.
I smiled at the kids, who detached themselves from the stranger to run toward my convertible. Opening the door, I was accosted with hugs, a volley of questions, and one helpful boy who closed my door with a solemn responsibility.
"Thanks, Lucas." I put a casual arm around his shoulders and hugged him briefly.
"They like you." The stranger stopped before me, legs slightly apart, the football jumping a lazy trip between his two hands.
“Honestly, they like everyone." I smiled and extended a hand. “I’m Layana."
"Billy," he said, holding the handshake a bit longer than necessary.
I disentangled my hand, turning to the children to disguise the motion. Reaching out, I snagged the closest body and pulled her to me, tickling the little girl briefly before twisting toward the main house and sprinting forward. "Race you guys to HQ!"
My tennis shoes tore across the damp grass, the squeal of voices in pursuit causing me to increase my speed. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing the new guy—Billy—staying close, a flirtatious grin shot at me.
I ignored the look and focused on the hill before me, my legs pumping up the embankment as I slowed my stride a bit to give the kids a fighting chance. Reggie, a ninth-grader who'd come to us three years ago, his torso already marked with gang ink, passed me, his long legs eating up the distance. I let him go, casting a quick glance around me to find the other kids. I slowed a little more, then let out a yell of mock frustration when the race ended with me as the loser.
I bent over, breathing dramatically, my back patted consolingly by Hannah, my personal favorite at the HYA compound. I turned to smile at her, my eyes catching on Billy, who watched the exchange, an interested grin on his face. I looked away.
"How long have you volunteered here?" The question came from the other end of the main house's kitchen. I didn't stop my PB&J production, didn't turn, knew the source of the manly drawl without looking.
"Five or six years. I'm only here twice a week." I unscrewed the lid to the jelly and avoided looking at the man who I was pretty sure just moved closer.
"I'm new." Duh. "Just a volunteer."
"How'd you find out about HYA?"
“HYA?"
I paused my jelly application and glanced over to see the man lean against the counter, then straighten. “HYA. Homeless Youths of America.”
"Oh." He let out a short laugh. "I read about it online."
That was a negative. We were a privately funded organization, run by internal and corporate donations and one that intentionally stayed off the public radar and as discreet as possible.
“Who was your referral?" I abandoned the sandwiches and set down the knife. Turning to him, I rested a hip against the counter and managed—somewhat successfully—to avoid staring at his abs, which were still on full and sweaty display. The man, apparently, had not brought a shirt.