Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 11652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 58(@200wpm)___ 47(@250wpm)___ 39(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 58(@200wpm)___ 47(@250wpm)___ 39(@300wpm)
The envelope is sealed, with a stamp on the front. I don't think she meant to give this to me.
But she gave it to you anyway, the little devil on my shoulder whispers.
I hesitate for a full five-count before tearing into the envelope.
Dear Santa...
Chapter Three
Lyric
"You can't hide out in here forever," I mutter to myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to talk myself into leaving the relative safety of Sinclair's small guest bathroom. I'm not so sure I want to leave, though. He's grumpier than usual today. And I can still see the outline of his erection as if the memory of it is burned into my brain. My panties are soaked.
He said he didn't have a girlfriend, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have someone. He's a man. A freaking gorgeous, successful man. Women probably throw themselves at him. Isn't that what I've been doing for the last year? Practically throwing myself at him?
Clearly, he isn't interested. I need to take the hint already. There will be no Christmas miracle for me this year. Sinclair Evans will never feel the same way I do.
Writing that letter to Santa was a stupid idea. At least I didn't send it. No postal worker will ever open it and laugh at the ridiculousness of a twenty-year-old writing to Santa for help with a man. My humiliating moment of weakness will remain my little secret.
I splash cool water on my cheeks, take a deep breath, and then duck out of the bathroom with a bright smile plastered on my face. I just need to make it home, and then I can cry.
"I've been thinking," I say, making my way down the hall to the kitchen. "You should really put up a Christmas tree even if you.…"
I come to a dead stop in the kitchen doorway, staring in shock.
Sinclair has my letter. He's reading it.
No. Oh, no.
"What is this?" he growls, holding it up. His piercing blue eyes settle on me, scorching me alive.
"Where did you get that?" I ask, my voice strangled. It's supposed to be in the... Crap. It's supposed to be in the car, but I was so upset when I grabbed the paperwork that I just scooped up everything from the passenger seat.
I forgot the letter was with the stack!
"You gave it to me," Sinclair growls.
"It wasn't meant for you!" I cry. I just want to sink through the floor and disappear.
"Really?" One dark brow arches. "Please bring this curvy girl a daddy for Christmas," he reads, his voice succinct. "Preferably my older brother's best friend, Sinclair Evans. Seems pretty fucking direct to me, princess." He sets the letter on the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Even without a shirt, he's the picture of command, sexy and domineering.
"Tell me," he says quietly. "Exactly how long have you wanted me to be your daddy, Lyric?"
I grasp for an answer, any answer that doesn't make me sound desperate or pathetic or like I'm obsessed with him, but he's looking at me, and I can't think. I can't ever think when his eyes are on me. Panic beats at me, rising swiftly.
I bolt for the door, running as fast as I can in my boots. I don't know why I do it. I know before I even take the first step that I don't stand a chance of outrunning him, especially when I have to run right past him, but I try anyway.
He catches me before I clear the kitchen, dragging me roughly into his arms. One big hand captures both of mine, holding me prisoner against the hard wall of his chest.
"Try that again, and I'll turn your little ass red," he snarls in my ear.
"Let me go."
"No."
"Please, let me go," I whisper, my bottom lip quivering as tears well in my eyes. I'm going to cry. How humiliating.
"I will never let you go, little girl. Not ever."
I choke on a sob.
He groans as if he's in pain, spinning me to face him. His horrified eyes meet mine. "No," he breathes, releasing my wrists to cup my face between his palms. His lips brush my forehead and then both cheeks. "Don't cry, princess. Fuck. Please, don't cry. I'm sorry. Daddy didn't mean to scare you."
Daddy. He just called himself my daddy.
"You just…"
"Say it," he growls.
"You called yourself…." I swallow hard, my heart beating a million miles a minute as tears spill down my cheeks.
"Say it, Lyric."
"You called yourself my d-daddy," I whisper, and then squeeze my eyes closed like that'll keep him from taking it back or breaking my heart into a thousand jagged pieces.
"Look at me."
I reluctantly crack one eye open, peeking up at him.
His lips twitch with amusement before he sobers. "You think you're the only one who whispers that name in the dark?"
"Yes."
"You're wrong. If you knew the filthy things daddy thinks about doing to you, you might be horrified."