Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
I’m not sure I’m breathing.
Scratch that, definitely not.
There’s a wild look in his eyes.
My arms are locked around his neck and we’re so close, I can feel his heart beating so, so fast.
He isn’t alone. Mine strums like a guitar plucked by a rock star belting out a nasty breakup ballad.
What is even happening?
“It’s normal for first-timers,” he says softly, and I blink up at him in confusion.
Shepherd Foster is never soft.
...and first-timers?
How do I explain that although I’m way younger, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve had my fair share of male attention, though none of the boys I’ve dated have ever swept me up like a storm.
“Kayaking,” he clarifies, eyeing my blank face.
Oh, crap.
And I thought I was embarrassed before.
Except, it’s too hard to feel bad when I’m being hauled around by this bear of a man.
“It’ll hurt like hell for a while. Eventually, you’ll get used to it. You need to rub the feeling back into your legs. Can you manage that or are your fingers cramping?” he asks a little too gruffly.
I’ve got nothing.
I can’t speak.
I’m a little worried that if I attempt speech, I’ll say something garbled and terrible. Or worse, make some kind of comment about the dusky blue of his eyes in the fading sunlight.
It’s not easy, especially when he’s all Poseidon right now, smelling like salt and exertion and a testosterone brushfire.
His lips are more incredible than ever up close.
When you look at them, you can’t look away.
From a distance, they seem thin and striking, but up close, they’re so full, like they were made for kissing a girl completely senseless.
On a scale of awestruck to smitten, I’m a solid I’m screwed.
There’s a strained moment of crackling tension.
I try to look away from his mouth, but I can’t, and it’s not because my neck feels like wood.
My eyes aren’t working either—or maybe they’re working too well—and all I can see is the way his bottom lip is slightly fuller than his top and—
I don’t know if he kisses me first.
Or do I kiss him?
Can you really pinpoint the precise second a storm rips open and unleashes its lightning?
One second, I’m staring at his lips like a woman possessed.
The next, his full, delicious mouth presses down on mine with a growl that’s all thunder, reaching up inside me.
Just a brush of parted lips and unexpected potential that feels like a cloud-to-ground strike.
I feel it in every searing bit of me.
His pressure.
His voice.
His claiming, harsh tension, snapping as he loses his own fight, as he gives in.
For the briefest second, I belong to Shepherd Foster in a way that makes me worry I’ll be fit for anyone else.
Again, all lightning.
Blink once and it’s over.
We jerk back, physically rocked, staring at each other in shock.
I see my horror reflected in his eyes, which are so dark and conflicted now. Thrashing blue fire on unsettled water.
Crap, crap, crap.
We just kissed.
I just kissed my boss.
Or he kissed me or—
Whatever.
It doesn’t matter. This is an insta-termination waiting to happen. He’s had so much trouble lately with that actress accusing him of the worst, he’ll have zero tolerance for more trouble.
Eep.
Could he even press charges?
I don’t know how he can prove anything.
But if I didn’t instigate it, I certainly didn’t mind.
I wanted it as bad as he did—and we both tasted desperation.
Even though he’s still holding me up, I feel like I’m falling.
If I could hit the ground, I would.
It’s too humiliating.
I have to borrow courage from next year to even look at him.
But he’s not glaring at me. There’s no anger smoldering in his eyes, no barbed words on his tongue.
His face glazes over as he moves, carrying me to a large driftwood log.
Though he’s not looking at me, exactly, he sets me down carefully and kneels in front of me.
I’m expecting him to walk away, if only to pull his thoughts together.
Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.
I definitely don’t expect to feel his hands massaging my calves.
My brain short-circuits.
I stare at him in utter disbelief because this isn’t happening.
Surely this can’t be real.
After that messy, accidental kiss, he can’t possibly be—
Oh, but he is.
And it feels divine.
His thumbs dig into my sore muscles with a manly, yet gentle precision.
A groan slips out of me so suddenly I press a hand over my mouth.
You’d think, being numb and kissed dumb, my legs and my brain wouldn’t feel anything, but they definitely are.
And it’s not total mortification.
His fingers are warm and my face is flushed, but he doesn’t look up.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
He just works my torn muscles into butter like he’s trying to smooth them back together.
I whimper again.
I can’t help it—the human connection, the unexpected massage feels amazing and it isn’t all the sensuality, either.
His skin rubs roughly against the rubber, and his hands are big.
My calves aren’t small, with all the cycling and running I do, but he can practically wrap his hands around them.