Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Jeremy the jackass.
Me.
And oh-my-God his lips are perfect Atlas.
“Officer,” I mutter because I can’t manage anything else.
“Come to the station,” Atlas grits out. “Now, kid.”
His pissy, bossy attitude should annoy me, but I’m still high off the fact that he rescued me. I’m elated at seeing Jeremy, aka Wannabe Coach Townsend, cuffed and at Atlas’s mercy. All too gladly, I follow Atlas as he hustles Jeremy across Main Street. There aren’t any cars at this time of night, really, so we don’t bother with going to the intersection to cross.
Atlas is quiet, ignoring Jeremy’s cursing, as he leads me into the police station. He nods toward the lobby area where three desks sit, indicating for me to wait there, then disappears down the hallway.
The newly added desk is Atlas’s. Compared to the mess of Jax’s and the Bath and Body Works lotion collection over on Brie’s, Atlas’s is immaculate. Neat piles of files and no extra clutter. The only thing, aside from the papers and pen, is a tube of chapstick.
Cherry limeade.
This makes me smile.
So he tastes like cherries—sweet and juicy—but has the sour tang of limes. Not surprising. What’s surprising is the way my mouth waters for a sample.
I glance out the window, noting he has a prime view of Blur that sits kitty-corner from the police station. It was pure luck he’d seen those assholes messing with me. I’m thankful for my luck.
Heavy footsteps thud back into the lobby. My back is still turned to him, but I feel his heat like the sun.
Tuscan sun yellow.
Bumblebee.
Canary.
Warm.
“You okay?”
“Don’t call me kid,” I say back like the bratty child I most obviously am. “I’m not a kid.”
His snort isn’t one of surprise. “Sure.”
The sarcasm in his voice burns me up from the inside out, but I’ve felt so cold and numb and lost lately that it feels invigorating.
“I could have handled him.” I angle my head to the side, trying to catch a peek of him over my shoulder. “Again. Not a child.”
“Like I said,” he mutters, humor in his tone. “Sure.”
I abandon trying to look over my shoulder at him and instead try to capture a peek in the reflection of the window. Atlas looms over me like a god of the world. I’m small and irrelevant in front of him. The reflection doesn’t show me the blue of his eyes; it just reveals fathomless dark holes.
Like a demon.
With watermelon lips that taste like cherry limeade.
I inhale his masculine scent for the first time. Before, at Comida’s, I couldn’t smell him. He was hidden beneath the overpowering scent of peppery-seared meat and sauteed vegetables. Now, I can scent the slight whiff of his chapstick, a hint of coffee, and the decidedly rugged smell of gasoline or oil or something equally manly. It makes for something that would be fantastic for a candle.
I’d burn it endlessly.
Atlas
Gone is the bleakness and black.
In its stead is red. So much red. I’m especially fascinated at how the faded red denim hugs his pert ass. It’s an ass I was denied seeing last week but feel grateful for the opportunity tonight. An ass that would look good speared with my dick. It’s the kind of ass that you worship with your lips and teeth and tongue. Spread it apart and fucking devour.
This kid—yeah, he’s a fucking teenager—does things to me.
Twice now, when in his vicinity, I’ve lost my damn mind. All willpower to be a better man is shoved into some dark corner of my consciousness. The desire to play with him and pin him and plunder him is all that seems to consume me.
I bet he loves having his pretty dick swallowed and adored.
I bet he tastes sweet, a complete opposite to his salty attitude.
I bet he whimpers breathlessly the second anything—finger, tongue, toy, dick—breaches his tight pink hole.
“I need to write up the report,” I murmur, my hot breath against the shell of his ear making him shiver. “See if he left any bruising.”
At those words, he spins, quick and hazel eyes wide with shock. “What?”
With his head tilted up to look at me, I’m able to inspect every tiny detail of him up close. Red eyeliner makes his eyes pop but also seem sad, like he’s been crying. A pale nose without a blemish or scar, unlike my own. Soft, pillowy pink lips. His cheeks and jaw are smooth and free of hair, but his dark, nearly black eyebrows are sculpted in a villainous fashion that gets my dick really, really hard.
His dark hair is styled sexily, making my fingers twitch to run them through the gel, messing it up.
“Where did he touch you?” I demand, my eyes locked with his. “Here?”
His breath hitches when I reach up and gently caress his jaw with my thumb.
“N-No.” His voice is hoarse. “Not there.”