Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
He stands behind me for a moment, letting me take it all in before his hand falls to my waist, gently squeezing. “Come on,” he says. “Let me feed you.”
Fuck yes! It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for all night.
My stomach grumbles as I turn to face the rest of the rooftop. My eyes widen, finding a full basketball court and a garden area with sheltered seating. Across the other side of the elevator is a heated pool, steam skimming along the top of the water, barely visible in the night.
My gaze slowly sweeps around the rooftop. It’s simply incredible, there’s no other way to put it. It was created this way with purpose, like some kind of retreat or escape to get away from the horrors of real life and enjoy the little things the world has to offer.
Dalton starts leading me across the roof, and just when I expect him to lead me toward the garden with the seating, he steps to the right, heading toward the basketball court. “Do you play?” I question, pointing toward the court.
“Something like that,” he mutters before indicating for me to take a seat at the edge of the court. He hands me the bag of takeout, his eyes expressing exactly what he’s thinking. “Eat up, Firefly. You’re gonna need your energy for what I plan to do to you.”
I gulp. Fucking gulp.
Dalton doesn’t linger on his comment, just tears his gaze away and shuffles down the court as though he’d simply stated what day of the week it was. He scoops up a discarded basketball and starts jogging across the court while dribbling the ball. He shoots from halfway down the court and the ball effortlessly drops right through the hoop, the shot coming so natural to him, it’s clear he’s been playing all his life.
My stomach grumbles again and not bothering to wait for Dalton to join me, I dig in and eat my kebab as though no one is watching. Though I’d be wrong because, despite not looking my way, I know he’s watching every little move I make. “Holy crap,” I groan, the kebab going down like a treat. “This is so good.”
“Thought you might like it,” he murmurs, jogging after the ball, making me wonder how often he comes up here and just fucks around on the court.
“Tell me,” I start, following his every move. “Do you bring all the girls up here?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Not really. Most chicks want to be wined and dined, but that’s not really my style, and I figured it wasn’t yours either.”
“Damn straight,” I say, regretting my decision to strike up a conversation as my half-eaten kebab stares back at me, silently begging me to take another bite. “I like this better. It’s chilled. There’s no forced conversation across a small wobbly table, just two people hanging out.”
“What kind of shitty restaurants have your dates been taking you to? Small, wobbly tables? Fuck, Firefly, sounds like you’ve been screwing around with little boys, not real men.”
“Let me guess,” I tease. “You’re one of these mysterious real men?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” he tells me, glancing back and holding my stare. “But just so we’re clear, only a real fucking man can make you come like I’m gonna.”
“You’re pretty damn sure of yourself.”
His lips kick up into a wicked grin, and I see a hint of danger flashing in his eyes that has me ready to kick this party up a notch. I take another bite of my kebab before laying it down on the wrapper and getting up. Making my way across the court, I hold my hands out and he instantly passes the ball.
I start moving across the court, slowly jogging and bouncing the ball as he stands back and watches me through a strange, curious stare. My game sucks. I wasn’t a sporty kid and my hand-eye coordination is non-existent, but it’s enough to not make me look like a complete idiot. I shoot the ball and it hits the rim of the hoop before thankfully dropping through the basket.
The ball bounces twice before I’m able to catch it, and I turn around, ready to head back up the court toward Dalton. “Alright, Mr. Hotshot, tell me something about yourself,” I say, realizing just how comfortable I am up on this roof with him. It’s so easy and natural, and I honestly wouldn’t have tonight any other way.
“What do you want to know?” he questions, catching the ball as I bounce it back to him. He takes off at a sprint, side-stepping around me like a pro and launching himself into the air before dunking the ball through the hoop. He doesn’t even break a sweat.
“Ummm . . . tell me one of those dark thoughts that wander around your mind that’s not socially acceptable to say out loud.”