Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
I don't do that, though.
"You can't be here," I say instead. The words come out a lot harsher than I intended, but I don't call them back. I fucking can't. For more reasons than I'm willing to admit, even to myself.
She stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head as if clearing it. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gregory. I didn't know you were going to be here. I–"
I jolt forward to stop her when she steps backward, but it's already too late.
She cries out as her right foot comes down on a shard of glass. Blood immediately drips onto the floor, running in a rivulet from her heel.
"Shit." I grab her around the waist, plucking her up off the floor and into my arms. My cock jerks as soon as I have my hands on her. Her skin is soft, and she smells like peaches and sunshine. That combination sends heat twisting through me.
Gritting my teeth, I try to ignore my body's reaction to her. I hold her weight easily, tucking her into my chest. Glass crunches under my boots as I stride toward the kitchen.
Mila whimpers, clinging to me like she's afraid I'm going to drop her, but there's no chance in hell of that happening. She may be curvy, but she's petite. I lift far more than her weight every day. Standing upright, she barely reaches my chest. She fits in my arms like she belongs there.
"I've got you," I say into her ear to reassure her and then flip on the kitchen light. Turning toward the sink, I set her on top of the counter before spinning to grab a hand towel. I try hard not to think about how soft her body is or about how she curled into me the instant I had my arms around her.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers in distress, her eyes wide as she stares at her blood smeared down my shirt and jeans.
I don't respond, instead turning on the faucet and letting the water wash away the blood still dripping in a steady stream from her foot. She cries out when the water rushes over the cut, and the sound goes right through me. I hate knowing she's injured and in pain because I was a dick.
I turn the faucet off once most of the blood has washed away and then adjust her so I can see how bad the damage is. The cut isn't large, but there's a sliver of glass still embedded in her skin. I hand her the towel, instructing her to hold onto it, and then move to grab the first aid kit out of the drawer across the room. Once I've gotten everything I need out and ready, I look up at her.
Her plump bottom lip is between her teeth. Tears shine in her green eyes.
Fuck. I'm an asshole.
"This is going to hurt," I warn her, speaking quietly. My throat is dry, my voice husky.
She nods bravely, clenching her hands into fists around the towel.
I grit my teeth and work quickly to remove the piece of glass with a pair of tweezers, trying not to hurt her. Once the glass is out, I pry the towel from her grip and hold it against her foot. She doesn't make a sound as I apply pressure to slow the bleeding. Doesn't even flinch.
When I glance up at her, she still has tears in her eyes, but they haven't fallen. She may be in pain, but she isn't delicate. She's a fucking warrior. Since the day I met her, she's been that way.
Pride for her bravery twists through me, leaving me feeling unsettled and turned on at the same time.
I remove the towel and clean the cut as gently as possible. Yet again, she remains quiet, not even making a sound when the alcohol pours over the cut, and I know that has to hurt like hell. She doesn't say anything when I bandage her foot, either.
By the time I've finished, an awkward silence has settled over both of us. I avoid looking at her as I move around the kitchen, cleaning up the mess and trying to get myself under control. Once I feel a little less off-balanced, I turn around to find her gaze focused on the countertop, her shoulders slumped.
She looks miserable, and I feel like an ass all over again.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I'm sorry," she blurts at the same time, looking up.
Her gaze tangles with mine, and once again, I'm struck by the sadness in her eyes. I've always found myself paying a hell of a lot more attention to her than I should have. She's always been a little defiant but never very loud or in-your-face. There's always been a certain confidence in her eyes, a little gleam of contentment. I don't know what shook that confidence, but I don't like it.