Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 67324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
It flashes red lights at me, beeping, and I can’t figure the stupid thing out. Why can’t it just be an old-fashioned turn-the-knob-and-it-heats-up kind of top? I can’t deal with this . . . this . . . new-age rubbish.
“What the fuck are you doin’ to my cooktop?” Mykel asks from behind me.
I spin around, pot in my hand, and gasp when I see the half-naked Mykel standing behind me, hair wet and smelling incredible from his oh-so-recent shower. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweats and nothing else. I try very, very hard not to look down at his cock in those pants, because, well, I’m a woman, and there is something about sweats that make a man’s cock look so damned delicious.
Sweet Jesus, I’m having way too many thoughts about Mykel’s cock.
I look down anyway.
My eyes fall on the thick length that is clearly visible in the pants and I find myself unable to tear my eyes away. Oh god, now I’ve looked down at it too long. If I look up, I’m going to look like a perv, but if I keep looking, I’m going to look like a total creep. What do I do? Shit.
“Your floor needs some washing,” I mutter.
I did not just say that.
I sheepishly look back up at him and he’s staring at me, almost in disgust. His face is stoic, his mouth tight, his nose screwed up just a little.
“In case you think I didn’t just know you were starin’ at my cock like a starved fuckin’ woman, then I’ll break the news to you that I did fuckin’ know.”
Oh.
Boy.
And wait a second, starved woman?
Who does he think he is?
I’m not starved.
Slightly dick deprived, maybe, but not starved.
“I beg your pardon.” I wave a finger at him. “I am not starved. Not even close. I was simply admiring what all good women would admire. I’m fairly certain you do it to every woman that walks past in a pair of tight pants . . .”
He just glares at me.
Man of very few words, this one.
“What are you doin’ to my cooktop?”
I glance back at it, thankful that we’re no longer on the topic of his cock. That was getting awkward. “I can’t work the stupid thing.”
“It’s not that fuckin’ hard. Turn it on and cook.”
“It keeps flashing at me, and beeping, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing wrong.”
With a growl, he snatches the pan from my hand and presses a few buttons, and the cooktop stops beeping and a red ring lights up around the farthest burner.
“What?” I yell, frustrated. “It did not just do that for me.”
“Maybe you should take that as a hint not to be in my kitchen.”
“Girl’s gotta eat, man,” I point out, staring back at him again.
God, why does he have to look so good? With all those muscles, and tattoos, and that gorgeous dark red hair, and those eyes and . . . Sweet Jesus, Waverly, get it together.
“Get out. I’ll cook.”
I frown and meet his gaze. “You’ll cook?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t know what I was going to cook, though . . .”
He stares at my roughly chopped vegetables and chicken, and mutters, “Somethin’ I wouldn’t feed to a dog by the looks.”
“Well, aren’t you in a dazzling mood this evening. Have you ever considered some medication for your condition?”
“Don’t have a fuckin’ condition.”
“You have a major condition. It’s called I-have-a-dull-personality condition. It’s very serious in some countries.”
He gives me a look that tells me he’s about to bust a top and I’m going to cop the raging hot contents he’s holding inside. “What were the rules in this house?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t speak,” I mutter, and then give him a cheesy grin. “But I can’t follow such a strict rule.”
“You can, and you fuckin’ will. Now go and shower while I make this dinner.”
I huff and turn, walking out of the kitchen. I’m not going to argue this savage anymore. He might just throw me into the fiery pits so he doesn’t have to look at me.
Such an unhappy human.
I wonder why?
I walk to my room, and as I’m passing a few of the doors in the hall, I can’t help but consider what’s behind them. He has so many bedrooms and office spaces in this house. Does he use any of them? Does he just keep them locked up so nobody can ever look?
Curious, I walk over to one and open it.
A bedroom, clean and tidy—nothing major to see.
I go to another one.
A small office space—well, small for this house. Again, it’s tidy. There’s nothing to see.
I go to the last door on the left and try it.
It’s locked.
I rattle it a few times, but it’s not moving. Hmmm, very interesting.
I try a few others, which are all unlocked, but I find myself glancing back at the locked door.