Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Slowly, he inches the material down, over my back, and when it falls to the counter behind me, I slip my hands away from it. “I loved this dress,” I say.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says.
“No,” I say immediately, my hands going to his hands where they rest on my thighs. “No. I do not want you to buy me a dress. I don’t want your money, and don’t make this about that.”
“Make this what?”
“I don’t need anything from you but an orgasm. Or two or three, if you’re up to it.”
The blue of his eyes burn, hot coals and simmering heat. “A challenge we can both accept.”
“But I still think you need to pay for my dress.”
His eyes narrow. “You said—”
“That I don’t want money but I want an even playing field.” I reach in the drawer beside me and grab a knife, removing it.
I don’t even get it beyond the counter before Nick grabs my hand, pulling it and the blade between us, his jaw steel, his voice tight. “What are you doing, Faith?”
Chapter Ten
Tiger
My fingers wrap around Faith’s slender wrist, that knife between us, but as I look at her, I think that if she intends malice, she’s far better an actor than any opponent I’ve ever faced. I see no intention in her face, nor do I sense any in her energy, see any in her eyes. But this moment damn sure reminds me that I’m not here because this woman rocks my world like no other, despite the fact that she does. I’m here because my father and her mother are dead. Because she is the only logical place murder leads, even if it now feels illogical to me.
“Trust issues much, Nick?” she challenges. “Who was she? Because clearly she fucked with your head.”
“You’re the one who plays with knives, sweetheart.”
“I don’t play with knives,” she says. “You inspired me.”
“Forgive me if I’m not flattered.”
“Do you have any particular fondness for that shirt?”
“Actually, I do. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Good. I felt the same about my dress. You owe me my revenge.”
“Revenge is not a word a man wants to hear from a woman with a knife in her hand.”
“Trust me and let go of me. I know that’s hard for a dominant like yourself, but fear isn’t a good shade for you, Tiger. And if it makes you feel any better, if I was going to kill you, I’d get that orgasm you’ve denied me not once, but twice, first.”
“The name is Nick,” I say, my gaze sweeping over the knife that just happens to be right in front of her beautiful breasts, before I refocus on her face and add, “unless you attempt to stab me. Then you meet Tiger.” And I think I’m losing my fucking mind, because I’ve decided that letting her have the knife is a good character test. I release her and press my hands on the island on either side of her.
“Now what?” I challenge, the current in the air electric, the push and pull of control between us damn near explosive.
Her eyes narrow, mischief in their depths, but again, I find no malice. More seduction and playful sexiness, which I rarely partake in. I like sex. I like fucking. I don’t like games that I don’t dictate, and my games are not playful. But this woman is not like the others; she does not affect me like anyone before her, and the jury is out on whether that is good or bad.
She grabs my shirt and pulls it from my pants, then takes the knife to the last button. It pops and flies into the air, hitting the ground with a magnified sound. Her gaze lifts to mine, and she says, “Still scared?”
“Don’t poke the tiger, sweetheart. You won’t like the results.”
“I’m not scared,” she promises, popping another button, then another, her free hand on my stomach, and if she wasn’t holding a knife, I’d move that hand to the damn throbbing in my cock. Instead, she just makes that throb worse, that hand following the path of the knife higher, farther away from where I want it and her. I endure the torture of not touching her, and patiently at that, until she is finally at my tie, a little too close to my neck for comfort. I grab her wrist again, taking the knife this time, and tangle my fingers in her hair. “Are you going to buy me a new shirt?”
“You can buy your own,” she says, her fingers tangling in the hair on my chest, and not gently—that bite of pain, adrenaline in my veins, her determination to challenge me proving relentless. “And we both know you wouldn’t have it any other way,” she adds.
I toss the knife into the sink to my left, and before it’s even landed, I’m kissing her, drinking her in, and this time, unlike the kiss by the refrigerator, I don’t hold back, and neither does she. Our tongues connect, stroke, battle…but it is one I will win. I will demand everything she has to give me. I want her free will. I want her as exposed as I vowed to make her, and it’s not to prove she’s a killer. It’s for me. For the man in me who not only wants to own this woman but will. And when she tries to resist, when I sense her trying to withhold even a piece of herself, my hand covers one of her breasts. My fingers stroke her nipple with delicate, sensual touches that become rougher and rougher.