Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
"Cute costume," the woman says, laughing.
My cheeks flame with mortification. I take a step backward, determined to flee into the night before anyone else sees me. I'm a pretty confident person. Under ordinary circumstances, I don't much care what people think about me. But I've been in town for six entire days—not even a full week.
The last thing I need is to be labeled the weirdo who showed up to a freaking masquerade party in a costume. I hate you so much, Tyler. I cannot believe he told me this was a costume party!
I'm going to spend the rest of my life in prison, eating weird prison food, probably living in a cell with someone who collects toenail clippings.
I spin on my heel, my unicorn tail swishing through the air, and take a stumbling, blind step forward…right into a ridiculously hard chest.
"Oh!" I cry, grabbing blindly for said hard chest to keep myself from falling right on my stupid unicorn tail.
Except, I don't grab his chest. Of course I don't. My aim is off. Way off. Why is he so freaking tall?!
"Jesus fucking Christ," he grunts, wrapping one ridiculously hard arm around me as I grab a handful of his dick.
"Oh my god!" I cry.
But I don't let go of his dick. Of course I don't. My brain says to let go. But my hand—Lord, have mercy—my hand just freaking clamps down instead.
Why am I squeezing?!
What is happening?
Abort. Abort.
My brain screams all the right things. It knows this should not be happening right now—that this is bad on every level of bad. On no planet, and in no way is this good or acceptable or okay. But my freaking brain is disconnected from my body. My hand literally will not open.
I just stand there. Terrified. Unable to move. Grabbing his dick.
Help. Me.
"Fucking hell, unicorn," he growls, shoving his hand between us to grab mine. He pries my fingers off.
Thank you, baby Jesus. I'm no longer squeezing his dick.
"If you want to play with my cock, I'll take it out for you, but this isn't the time or place."
"I'm not…I don't…I…" I stutter, tipping my head back to look up at him. Of course my body works now. Of course it does. My gaze tangles with him, and I gulp, falling silent.
Unlike everyone else I've seen in the last three minutes, he isn't wearing a mask. His icy blue eyes sear me, his upper lip curled like he's snarling. Except the look on his face isn't pain or anger. It's pure pleasure.
"You're beautiful," I blurt. It's nothing but the truth. I've seen big, rugged men before, and I've seen beautiful men before. But I've never seen a man who managed to be both at the same time. This man is both, in spades. His shaggy brown hair is a touch too long, but it suits him perfectly. His beard is sexy as sin. So are the tattoos that lick up the side of his neck beneath the tuxedo stretched to capacity over his muscular frame.
"Are you just saying that because you're still basically touching my cock right now?" he asks, his voice a gravelly, rusty rumble, like he doesn't use it much.
"What? No! I…" My hand darts away from his dick, finally moving under my command. At least, it would, except he's holding it, so instead, it just kind of hovers near his erection, bumping against it as we stare at each other.
"You grabbed my cock."
"Stop saying that!" I cry, squirming in shame. "It was an accident."
One of his dark brows flies upward. "You were squeezing, unicorn."
"Accidentally."
"You accidentally grabbed my cock and accidentally squeezed?"
"Yes," I sigh, relieved he gets it. Mortified it happened at all. Oh my god. This is horrific.
"Uh-huh. And I suppose you accidentally kept squeezing it, too?"
I narrow my eyes on him, anxiety churning through me. "You don't sound very convinced."
"You don't sound very convincing. Why'd you grab my cock, unicorn?"
"Stop calling me that." I tug on my arm, but he refuses to release me. "I have a name."
"What is it?"
"Madeline Dooley." My eyes fly open wide when he smirks. "Crap," I mutter. Now he knows my name and can file charges against me for touching him inappropriately. Or he can axe-murder me.
Stranger danger, Madeline. Stranger-freaking-danger.
"Madeline Dooley," he repeats, his eyes still locked on my face.
"What's your name?" I ask, far more bravely than I feel right now, but hey. Turnabout is only fair play, right? Maybe. He isn't the one who just had his hands all over my private areas.
This is bad. I am so going to jail. And I can't even be upset if he sends me to the slammer. I deserve it.
Goodbye, new job. Hello, toenail clippings.
"Drake Whitlock."
My gaze flies back to his face, and I blink. "You're Drake Whitlock?"
I've only been here for a week and even I've heard about Drake Whitlock. He lives in a mansion on the outskirts of town, is a bajillionaire or something, and doesn't come around town much. People say he's a cranky hermit. This man does not look like a hermit to me. He's maybe thirty. That's at least thirty years too young to be a cranky hermit.