Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
So I throw the door open, clasping the lamp like a bat.
I played softball years ago. I’ve got this.
If only anything on Earth could prepare me for what I find.
...are hot serial killers a thing?
Because this guy is a certified GQ model.
A six-foot-plus wall of muscle surrounded by steam. He must like his showers scorching hot.
It takes a few seconds to peer through the haze, and I can’t make out much more until he moves.
Believe me, I see enough.
His whole body is toned and tight and chiseled by a mad sculptor dead set on crafting the perfect man.
His large hands lather foam over biceps bigger than my head.
I have to unglue my eyes as he stands beneath the spraying water with his eyes closed, smiling like he enjoys his own touch a little too much.
With a body like that, I’m sure the narcissism comes naturally.
My gaze slides down his broad chest, diamond-cut abs, and sculpted pelvic bone to—
Oh, no.
Heat throbs under my cheeks. I hate that I bite my lip, but I’ve never seen a man who’s part stallion before.
Moby Dick has nothing on this well-endowed freak.
For a second, my brain rabbits, wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hands around something that enormous—if I could even close them.
Let alone do anything else.
Every part of this man is made to punish.
All rough strength and hard edges and a literal battering ram jutting out between his legs, half-hard from the steam, I guess.
But back to that whole serial killer thing...is he a convict?
Did Hawaii have a supermax jailbreak recently I didn’t hear about?
My body squirms at the thought, still hideously stuck on Goliath and his stupid scary, stupid hot good looks that are making me—what else?—stupid.
There’s no other word for it when my arm turns to mush and the crystal lamp slips out of my sweaty hands.
It shatters against the floor a second later like someone throwing a box of ornaments.
“Oh, crap,” I whisper, totally paralyzed.
Everything happens in slow motion.
Goliath’s eyes pop open and his head whips around. He glares at me like a tiger rudely awakened from a nap.
Uh-oh.
With my one and only weapon in pieces on the floor, there’s no hoping he doesn’t see me now.
Raw instinct takes over.
I scream before I even realize I’m doing it.
I scream so loud my throat hurts, but my voice has no off switch.
I scream for dear life for ten solid seconds until my own ears ring and I’m winded.
Then I stumble backward, doubled over and breathless.
Maybe screaming bloody murder was good.
Maybe, by some miracle, someone will hear me up here and send help.
Except the presidential suite is the only room on this floor, and you have to use a card in the elevator to get up here.
So unless there’s an employee diligently working graveyard shift one floor down...
I’m so screwed.
Amazingly, Goliath isn’t out of the shower yet.
That means I still have time.
I need to run like hell for the elevator while I have a head start.
Sucking in a deep breath, I straighten up, willing my legs to move.
I’m about to turn and run but the shower door swings open so fast it’s dizzying.
My lethal Adonis steps out, snapping a towel from the shower rack. He whips it around his waist faster than I can blink.
My gaze follows his movement.
Again, I hate that he’s so hot.
I hate that I’m losing time as I spin around for the door, practically leaping for it.
“Stay or it’s going to be much worse!” he bellows, his voice rolling thunder.
Oh, God.
I know for a fact he doesn’t have a weapon while he’s almost naked. Should I run for it while I can? But he’s so much taller, so much stronger, I doubt I can outrun him.
Is it time to settle for just not being tortured?
I sigh and freeze in place.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you here to steal my shit?”
What the holy hell is he talking about?
I’m already doubting the serial killer thing. Two other theories come my mind.
He’s either smoked or snorted something way too strong or he’s in the middle of a mental breakdown.
“How did you get in here? Tell me now,” he demands.
His scowl threatens to burn me through the floor, but he’s not exactly moving on me in a hostile way. Yet.
Maybe the mess of broken glass between us has something to do with that.
The way he hesitates gives me just enough of my wits back to glare at him.
“Um, what? Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I used my keycard.”
“Keycard?” he spits back. His brow tightens, a look of utter disgust on his face.
Any empathy I had just disappeared.
Whatevs.
If I’m dead meat, I might as well go out giving him a piece of my mind. I step closer, but my foot slides over a crystal shard.
“Ow!”
“Fuck,” he rumbles, moving forward carefully. “Lady, are you okay?”