Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
In the mirror, I find my disheveled self in all my glory. Why didn’t I put on some make-up this morning? My hair looks like I’ve just got out of bed after some very vigorous sex. Splashing my face with some water, I pat it dry with a paper towel. At least my skin is clear, and after some finger combing, my hair is a little more presentable.
Posture, I remember my mom shouting at me every time I slouched as a teen. Rolling my shoulders back, I draw myself up to my full five-foot-six-inches and try to look like Miss Professional. It’s going to take a seriously straight spine to pull this off, but I’m going to do it, just so I can see my boss’s withered butthole of a mouth when I quit.
2
KYLA
Ink Factor is exactly as daunting as I pictured it would be. With blackened windows, a sign that is mostly graffiti, and pumping music pouring from inside, it’s not the kind of place I would ever usually walk into.
I cross my arm over my chest, grabbing the brown leather handle of my purse and taking a deep breath. You deserve to get paid twice what you’re making, I mutter under my breath. You’re an excellent administrator, and you’re going to get this job. You can do this.
Reaching my hand out to take ahold of the door handle, I jump, sensing someone behind me.
That someone is tall, gorgeous, and tattooed almost everywhere that there’s skin on show.
“Sorry,” I stutter. “Were you waiting to go inside?”
“I was.” His deep voice rumbles, tickling my nipples and the place between my legs that has seen so little action that it doesn’t know what to do in the presence of so much testosterone. He must be at least six-four of muscle and sex appeal, with a shaven head and eyes the color of honey. But it’s the way he draws his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes trail over me like maple syrup trickling over a pancake that has my heart beating triple time.
God, it should be illegal for one man to be so perfect. He should have a warning sign permanently pinned to his snug black shirt to let poor unsuspecting girls like me know just how dangerous it is to look at him.
The scene from the Jungle Book movie flashes through my mind where the snake’s eyes begin to pulse in concentric circles, mesmerizing Mowgli. Poor thing never stood a chance, and neither do I!
“I’m sorry,” I mumble again, all memory of my pep talk disappearing in a fog of sex and stupidity.
“Were you waiting to go in?” Cocking his head to the side, he rests his hand over mine on the door handle, making me jump.
“I’m here for a job interview.” My voice is a husky croak as he eases open the door, controlling my hand with a firmness that I feel everywhere.
“A job interview,” he repeats, nodding knowingly. I want to ask him what he knows, but I can barely breathe with his warm skin pressed against mine.
Touching hands shouldn’t feel this forbidden.
“Yes. For an administrator.”
He smiles at that. “Well, I didn’t think you were an artist. Too much of a virgin.”
“Virgin?” I stutter as he places his booted foot in front of the door to wedge it open.
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk. His hand brushes my neck and over the pale skin of my shoulder that’s peeking out where my sweater has slipped down on one side. “So much pretty virgin skin.”
Oh God. My cheeks flame like a freaking gas explosion, and a shiver sends a rush of goosebumps just about everywhere, all of which is completely obvious to this man. He bites his lip ring again, that slow smile easing over his perfect lips.
“Noah,” a voice yells from the depths of the shop. “Your appointment is here. Quit stalling in the door.”
He rolls his eyes, still in no rush to get inside. Dipping his head, he gets close enough that I can smell the lemony fresh scent of his skin. “You can do it,” he murmurs. “You’ve got this.” And with a wink, he adds. “You deserve twice what you’re getting paid. Tell Carl. He’ll give it to you if you ask nicely.”
And with that, Noah rests his hand on the small of my back and ushers me inside.
Gazing around, I must look like a terrified raccoon caught in the beams of an eighteen-wheeler. The walls of the shop are a mixture of bare brick and graffiti-style art that reflects tattoo imagery, from dragons to pin-up girls. A huge messy desk dominates the front of the store, and behind it, a huge man, with broad shoulders and light blond hair tied back into what looks like a Viking style, frowns at some paperwork.
“Hey, Carl. This girl is here for the interview.”