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)
It’s shaping up to be worth every bad pun.
Even now, I remember too much.
His firm, comforting weight pressing down on me.
How swiftly he moved, seizing my mouth, growling with need as his tongue pushed against mine.
And what a tongue.
The man knows when to give, when to chase, when to tease.
If he just knew how to sort his own shit, we might be in a happier place. Not here, rising with the sun and trying like mad to rub the exhaustion from my eyes.
My panties are still wrecked from dreaming about cold blue eyes that can only ever offer conflicted kisses.
And that wild, wanting look in his eyes...
God.
I still don’t understand.
Why did he have to freak out and run away when it tasted so good?
It wasn’t me, right?
It’s not that people don’t find me attractive. I know, logically, that I’m relatively pretty, and guys have given me plenty of attention ever since I hit my main growth spurt.
But this is different.
No one has ever wanted me the way Shepherd Foster looked at me last night.
Fierce and desperate and entirely demanding.
Also, so familiar.
He wanted me with the same strength he unleashed on the ocean, and that’s weirdly compelling.
My heart drums wild whenever I think about it.
I didn’t plan this.
I came for otters and wound up being drawn to my boss like a moth to flame.
This isn’t me.
I’m not Miss Free Fall.
If I’m dating, I need a guy to wow me before any real attraction sets in.
I’m a third date girl for any sexy business.
After we’ve talked and connected and kissed a few times, then maybe. Or maybe I realize I’m too busy or too disinterested and I politely end it right there. My usual routine.
But this isn’t me.
I don’t recklessly throw myself at men without a basic human connection first.
Whatever we have, it’s definitely not that.
Shepherd and I don’t even like each other.
There’s just this sizzling animal magnetism I can’t deny.
A switch he flicked the second he hauled me out of the sea.
Even then, I was a goner, before the ill-fated massage and the kiss that plucked my heart out.
Holy hell, the kiss.
My whole body burns just remembering it.
The single most erotic moment of my existence, and we were still fully clothed.
Briefly, I consider touching myself while it’s still dark and quiet and I’m covered up in my sleeping bag, but then I hear him moving around and I’m sure he’s awake.
Ugh.
He’ll know.
Then I’ll never live it down.
So I just lie there in the dim light just before sunset proper, wide awake and exhausted yet fizzing with a lust so intense it vibrates with awareness.
For a second, I think about calling out, but I open my mouth and stop cold.
I can’t do it.
Not in this state.
Sighing, I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and cool off for a second in the dewy morning air.
I think Shepherd does the same, taking a moment to collect himself.
He looks so painfully handsome in that tight t-shirt clinging to him like a second skin that I don’t dare stare too long.
And it’s a one-way glance.
He doesn’t so much as look at me as he packs his stuff away.
His movements seem almost as stilted as mine, sore from yesterday’s rigors, or maybe just intent on holding himself together.
Despite everything, I feel a tiny surge of victory.
If he’s been awake all night too, good.
The prick deserves it after kissing me like Satan on a mission and then cutting me off cold turkey.
Never mind the fact that he wouldn’t utter one word about it.
Adults talk... don’t they?
When they make mistakes, they own up to them—and he clearly thinks yesterday was an epic mistake—and they also figure out a way to set things right.
But when it comes to Shepherd Foster, CEO and shameless jackass extraordinaire, communication is an afterthought.
Fine.
Whatever.
While he kicks dirt and sand into the fire pit, I sit up and pack my overnight stuff into my kayak, strapping it down firmly.
Soon, without speaking, we carry our boats down from the rocks where we secured them and get everything ready to go.
My limbs feel like they’re encased in cement when I start paddling.
Muscles I didn’t know I had scream with protest.
Luckily, a few parts of this stretch of coastline are familiar. This isn’t my first time coming to the Olympic Peninsula.
Last year, I came out here for five days sea otter hunting and came back empty-handed, not counting a few pics of cute foxes and a marmot. But I didn’t have anything to prove then like I do today, and the stakes are higher than ever.
“This is it,” Shepherd finally says about an hour later, breaking the morning quiet. “Where do you want to start?”
After some thought, I pick a small trail through the woods that curls back to another beach through some overgrowth. It’s one of those hidden gem beaches that rarely sees people, safe from the summer tourists. That factor alone might boost our chances.