Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
I saved her from three presumptive assholes, only to have her cringing because I’m more than likely coming off as just another of the male species drooling after her.
I’m barely able to piece together a coherent sentence as she makes small talk while we drive, asking me about the town, how long I’ve been a sheriff and then finally giving up and falling silent, my one and two word answers making her think I probably don’t want to talk to her.
Wrong.
Her voice lights up places inside me I’ve never before allowed light.
“Guess we’re here,” she says, and I realize I’ve already put the cruiser in park and shut off the ignition, although I don’t recall doing either.
“Yeah,” I grunt, grabbing the door handle and hopping out.
Jesus, get your shit together. You’re buying her a coffee, not proposing.
My cock thickens at the mere suggestion as I come around the front of the car. She’s got her door open stepping out, still in bare feet, and I grip the top of the door and stand in the opening.
“Back inside,” I manage and she looks up at me with confusion in those haunting blue and brown eyes and I’m fucking melting.
But also hard as the steel barrel of a shotgun.
“I’m sorry?”
“Back inside,” I repeat, and she nips that lower lip again and nearly kills me. How can teeth in a lip make me want to come in my pants?
On a twist of her lips, she slips back into the seat, pulling her feet inside and pointing her cute-as-fuck toes as I close the door, watching her pull at the fingers of one hand with the other.
I count to three. Breathe, asshole, I say to myself, then re-open the door as she stares at me like I’ve got two heads.
“You should always have your door opened for you.” I swing it wide, stepping back with a sweep of my arm, inviting her out.
“Uhh…” She narrows her eyes, her pink lips battling back a grin. “Okay.”
She’s stepping forward as I look at the way her hips move under the worn fabric of her peasant skirt. It’s handmade, and I wonder for a second if she made it herself, and whether it was by choice or because that creep of a father of hers ordered her to do it.
As we work toward the door, a slick salesman type, with a cheap-ass suit and unnaturally white teeth, is leaving. And when he looks at Kezia, he doesn’t bother to hide the way he ogles her tits then gives me an ‘atta boy’ look.
Dumb ass.
I sidestep around her, blocking his view, practically bumping my chest into his as I bark the first words that come to me. Unprofessional as they are.
“Something to look at?” I challenge, and he raises his eyebrows on a chuckle and keeps walking.
I put a hand on the door and look down, suddenly enraged at the way her blouse is pushed so low and her corset too tight. Another half inch and her nipples would be on display for everyone to see.
Unacceptable.
“Wait.” I stop her, reaching down and pinching the fabric on her shoulders, tugging it upward, but it’s held tight by the corset around her waist. “That uncomfortable?” I ask and she gives a little shrug on a half-smile.
“I’m used to it.”
“That’s not what I asked. Is. It. Uncomfortable?” I harden my words, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” she answers like the admission is a weakness.
I spin her around and pull at two dangling laces and work my fingers upward, loosening the medieval torture device before turning her around again to face me.
“Can you unclasp it now?”
Her eyes dart around like someone might be watching, as though she’s breaking some rule. “Yes.” Her delicate fingers work the metal latches on the front until the fabric falls to the sides and I take it from her and set it inside the cruiser.
“Better?” I ask as untie the bow of the thin cording that controls the neckline of her blouse. I pull the ends of the cord tighter and tighter until the cream fabric rests at the center of her sternum then re-tie the bow.
“You a sheriff or the fashion police?”
“Funny,” I retort as I move in front of her and open the door, secretly loving she’s got a bit of a mouth on her. The cool, air-conditioned interior mixes with the summer heat and it reminds me of the conflict churning inside of me.
I grind my molars until flashes of white light dot my vision, as I hover like a madman next to her and she places her coffee order.
“Large black with eight sugars. Super, extra hot.”
That’s it. No fru-fru whipped, mocha, frappy-chino bullshit. But, eight sugars?
I think to myself she doesn’t need that sugar to be sweet. I’ll bet a mile to a million she’s got the sweetest flavor on the fucking planet right between her legs.