Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
It’s this-girl-smells-amazing-feels-amazing-comes-amazing wood.
My heightened sense of arousal keeps me stock still, but staying in bed all day can’t happen. There are plans to make, guys to coordinate.
If I wait, I know I’ll have to face her, answer her questions. I love arguing with her, chasing her, but if she tempts me today, she’s going to end up on her back, my face buried between her thighs. I’m too revved up to listen to her bratty mouth without filling it with my cock. My resistance is gone, vanishing into thin air after spending a night totally cognizant and free of fever in her arms.
When I move my arm from her back, she doesn’t budge. Pulling my hand from her thigh elicits a small change in breathing, but not enough to wake her. It takes approximately thirteen minutes to extract myself out from under her, and another twenty to get dressed in silence.
I don’t bother heading into the restroom, too close to risk waking her, opting instead to use the restroom near the security office instead.
Only I don’t make it to the security office because Mr. and Mrs. Blair are in the kitchen, both sipping cups of coffee as if they were waiting for me to show my face.
Motherfucker.
I’m calm under pressure, able to keep my cool in the face of adversity.
And they may not see my pulse pounding, but I feel it in my chest, beating a warning rhythm against my ribs.
“Mr. Coleman,” Charles Blair says as he lowers an electronic tablet.
“Mr. Blair.”
“We came home early looking for Remington. She’s not in her room.”
Because she’s in mine.
They don’t look for her. They must be suspicious. I run through every memory, every interaction I’ve had with Remi. Did one of them happen to go through the pool footage last night? I can imagine I look like a deranged sociopath scooping Remi up and throwing her over my shoulder.
They know something. This is a test, but I don’t know if the truth will have any different of an outcome than a lie.
“She’s safe,” I hedge, wondering if half the information would be enough.
They both watch me, unspeaking.
Guess not.
“She’s in my room. Would you like me to get her?”
My voice doesn’t crack. I’m not a child in trouble. If there are consequences, I’ll face them without acting like a beaten puppy.
“Your room?” Mrs. Blair’s hand goes to her throat as if she’s scandalized.
I barely resist rolling my eyes.
“Yes. She didn’t want—she’s in there.” I change direction mid-sentence, unable to reveal her vulnerability. She shared that with me last night, and that’s not my situation to explain. I doubt her parents would care anyway.
“We don’t pay you to fuck—” Mrs. Blair stops when Mr. Blair clears his throat. “Having relations with our daughter isn’t part of the contract Blackbridge Security signed.”
I was prepared to argue that I haven’t fucked Remington, but I’m pretty sure fingering her to orgasm counts as relations so I keep my mouth shut.
“She does this to get attention, and I’m sorry you got caught up in the middle of one of her games. I don’t think the child will ever learn.”
I clench my jaw. There are a million things I could argue. She’s a grown woman for starters. She doesn’t do this—the assumption being that she spreads her legs for men as a game—because she’s tight as a fucking drum and her cherry hasn’t been popped.
But I don’t open my mouth to say any of those things. Remi was right. Neither one of them listen. Neither one of them honestly care about what she’s doing. Even now, as they watch me, waiting for me to either argue or agree with them, they don’t seem concerned with what she’s doing at all, other than she’s possibly sleeping with me to get attention. It doesn’t look bad for Remi. It looks bad for them, and that’s where their line has always been.
“It was good to see you.” I nod at both of them and walk out of the kitchen.
I wave to Clinton, the elderly gardener that Remi swears is a creep on the way to my truck. He tips the brim of his hat before wiping sweat from his brow and going back to work on the already perfect rose bushes. I imagine the Blairs are back home because a leaf blew into the yard and not because it’s their daughter’s fucking birthday.
I drive aimlessly for over an hour before my phone chirps for the first time. I ignore the warning text from Wren, prepared to face what I had a gut feeling was already coming. I should feel relief, but my stomach falls when Deacon’s name flashes on the dash.
I answer through the Bluetooth.
“Good morning.”
Silence is returned, but I know he’s still there. What I don’t know at this point is if I’m going to get the man with the smile in his voice or the man who is going to tell me to take the week off because coming into the office at any point this week is going to end with his hands around my throat.