Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He held it for a beat before exhaling softly, trying to release all his fear and tension in that single breath. It didn’t quite work, but he felt calmer, more centered.
Iris was okay. She was safe, alive… warm. Trystan didn’t deserve to take comfort and feel peace at her presence in his bed, but—call him a selfish fucking bastard if you wanted—he did. He had a lot to make up for, but she was here, in his arms, and Trystan would fight the devil himself to keep her there.
Chapter Eleven
Iris opened her eyes to an unfamiliar wall. It was gloomy, but despite the poor light she could tell that the wall was dark blue and not the creamy off-white to which she’d become accustomed these last few days.
She should have felt refreshed after what had to have been her first real sleep since her arrival but instead she felt exhausted… and anxious.
Although the anxiety was nothing new, not when every day brought with it seeping dread and building panic at the stark reality of being trapped in a room where the walls felt like they were closing in more and more every day.
But today’s anxiety felt different, and as she became aware of the heavy male body spooned behind her, she began to get an inclination as to where the dread and anxiety stemmed from.
She was confused. This man—who was giving off enough heat to power a furnace—was pressed so close to her, it was hard to figure out where he ended and she began. His bent knee was thrust between her thighs and his other leg was thrown across hers. One of his long arms was under her neck, while the other was draped over her waist, his hand pressed between her—naked—breasts.
Yes, she was naked. And he was very close to naked. Hard to miss that fact with the amount of hot, bare flesh plastered against her back.
Oh, and he had an erection. The fabric of whatever underwear he was wearing did very little to conceal that fact. He wasn’t grinding it against her or anything like that, but it was tapping insistently—almost politely—against the small of her back.
Please ma’am, would you let me in?
The absurd notion had her snorting and she felt him tense behind her.
“Iris.” The instantly familiar voice was gravelly with sleep and despite the placating tone in that single word, Iris went still as a statue. Even her breathing stalled.
Of course she’d known that it was Trystan Abbott in bed with her. Who the hell else could it have been? But the confirmation still shook her.
What the hell was going on here?
She tried to remember what had happened last night, but—while attempting to remember sent feelings of breathless panic, desperate fear, and pulsating anxiety threading through her veins—the memory remained elusive.
She didn’t try too hard though, the negative feelings convincing her not to prod too much right now. It would come back soon enough.
“Are you okay?” Trystan asked into her hair and… did he just drop a kiss onto her head? “How do you feel?”
Iris didn’t think they’d had sex. She was certain she’d remember that. And her body would definitely know. But what other explanation could there be for this level of intimacy?
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Why am I here? And why are we in bed together?”
He laughed quietly, but the sound was almost despairing.
“I like how you always get straight to the point.”
He did? That was news to her. She’d always thought her bluntness annoyed him.
“What do you remember about last night?” he asked, somber now, all trace of laughter gone from his voice.
Iris searched her memory. They’d watched movies all afternoon, talked, joked, laughed and then he’d—he’d…
Her breathing came faster as remembered fear and panic flooded her brain. She began trembling, teeth chattering with the intense vibrations of her shaking.
“You locked me in again,” she said in a small, broken voice that would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been so very distraught at the memory that brought her fear surging back as if she were locked in right now.
She was aware of him talking, his hold on her tighter, his voice urgent, but soothing.
“—open. Do you hear me, Iris? The door is unlocked. And open. You’re safe, you’re okay. You can leave anytime you want to.”
“W-what?”
“Look,” he instructed her, pointing toward the door, which looked wrong. It was crookedly hanging off the hinges. “It’s open. You’re fine.”
“It’s broken,” she pointed out nonsensically, and he chuckled, a rusty, relieved sound.
“Yeah, I had to get in here in a hurry and my hands weren’t free.”
“You kicked the door in,” she remembered. It was all a bit vague, but she did remember that. “You could have hurt yourself. Broken your foot, or sprained your ankle, or something. That was really reckless.”
“You scolding me right now, Hughes?” he asked, no heat in his voice at all.