Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
When Lucky slides out of me and I can breathe again, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in close to him.
“That was incredible,” he whispers against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “You are a dirty, dirty girl.”
I smile weakly and exhale deeply, feeling completely drained and sated. “Thanks. I think,” I say, wondering if I’ll ever be more than just a fuck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lucky
I look down at Aria with a smug grin on my face. I can’t deny the masculine pride that runs through my veins at the sight of a well-fucked woman down for the count. She’s flat on her stomach, limbs stretching in all directions, her messy blonde hair obscuring her face. But even that can’t hide the satisfied smirk on her lips as she sleeps. Pineapple, coconut, and sex sit heavy in the air, and I inhale deeply.
It’s the smell of victory and it’s got me grinning like a damn fool to myself.
I step from the bed and grab two wipes from the package I find in the bathroom. I tiptoe back and gently clean her before I clean myself, then lie down next to her again quietly so I don’t disturb her. Aria’s breathing is deep and even, and I’m fucking grateful she’s getting a few moments of peace.
The past few days have been a lot for her. Finding out her whole fucking life is a lie has been traumatic as fuck, and having a front-row seat to that shit-show is not something I want to ever do again.
My body is coming down from the orgasmic high when Aria’s curves press against my body, curling into me. She rests one hand over my heart like I’m her personal pillow and curls one leg across my thigh. Surprisingly, I’m all right with it. I’m not the stay-the-night type of dude. I get what the fuck I need, make sure she gets off, and then I get gone.
Maybe it’s because I can’t leave, or maybe I don’t want to. I don’t fucking know, but when I absently kiss her temple and close my eyes, something deep in my soul knows that this is different. Hell, it may even be special. How the fuck should I know? This protective instinct I have for Aria is foreign to me. I don’t let myself care, not about anything other than my brother Diesel and my MC.
But goddammit. This rich bitch princess? Fuck, she means something to me, and I know it. I can deny it all fucking day, but the fact that we’re all cuddled up and I’m wide awake thinking about her but not fucking her, well, that right there, calls me a liar.
Thankfully, sleep eventually claims me, but my dreams are of Aria. Of putting a fucking bullet in Arturo Rojas’ head and obliterating the Bloodthirsty Devils, and then coming home to her. Sliding into bed beside her, claiming that sweet pussy as my own.
It’s as close to a fucking fairytale as I’m willing to allow myself to hope for, but it’s a sweet fucking dream.
And it ends too soon when I hear a noise that yanks me from my sleep and my dreams. Careful not to wake Aria—yet—I ease away from her and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My hand blindly searches for my boxers in the pitch-black room when another noise makes me freeze.
It’s downstairs but getting closer. I scan the room. Nothing seems off until the faint glow from Aria’s tablet charger goes out. The room is dark. Shit. This isn’t Frannie or Beatrice making a midnight raid on the fridge.
It’s trouble.
Slowly, I crack open the bedroom door and creep across the hall to grab my gun and two backup clips before rushing back to Aria.
“Aria,” I whisper, pulling on my jeans, but she doesn’t stir. I lean over and press a kiss to her mouth.
Half-asleep, she mumbles, “Again?”
I smile and shake my head. “Later, Princess. Right now, I need you to wake the fuck up and get dressed. Quickly.”
Maybe it’s the orgasms or the fact that she’s still more asleep than not, but for the first time since I’ve met her, she does as I ask without argument. Later I’ll reward her for that, but now I’ve got bigger issues.
Heavy footsteps draw closer on the hardwood floor, and I push Aria behind me.
“Stay low,” I whisper and tap her shoulder until she’s crouching on the far side of the room. I step forward, using Aria’s butt-ugly armoire as cover.
“Fuck!” someone whisper-shouts from the hall. The intruder is a male and sounds American. But it’s not Geoffrey Morgan. Or whatever his name is. Not any of my men, either.
Whoever he is kicks the door open and takes aim at the bed, two shots straight into the sheets. Aria sucks in a breath, barely audible, but he still turns toward the sound. A shot rings out, hitting the lamp inches above Aria’s head.