Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
“How could I ever forget?”
“Good.” He smirks, and I want to smack it off his smug, handsome face. Why does he have to be so damn handsome? My mind tells me one thing, but my body wants something else altogether.
“How did you get in here?” I steer the conversation in a different direction.
“We've been over this, love.” He trails his finger down my jaw. “If I want something, I take it.”
“I’m not a...ah...something. Nor am I a possession.” I hate how my voice shakes. This man makes me an utter mess when he’s close. We need to go back to texting and phone calls. In person is too much. Keeping space between us is easier.
“No, you are not,” he agrees.
It doesn't feel like a victory. In fact, he makes it sound like I belong to him even more.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Did I leave the back door unlocked? That doesn’t sound like me. I should have set the alarm before I stepped outside, but I was only a few feet from my front door. As if he knows what I’m thinking, Hollis steps around me and goes to the alarm. I watch in utter shock as he keys in the code, arming it.
“I didn’t make all that money in tech without a reason.”
“You’re insane.” My heart gives a weird flutter. Is that fear or something else entirely? The only real fear I have is his potential to use me and then discard me.
“You have no idea.” He grabs me by the wrist, and I must be in shock because I let him lead me over to the couch. “Sit.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Would you rather I make you sit?” he asks, and I slowly lower myself onto the couch.
“Traitor,” I mutter to Snowball. Why is he hanging out with Hollis like they're best friends?
“He’s a good dog.” Hollis drops to one knee in front of me. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he starts to remove my boots from my feet. Then he puts my fluffy slippers back on them.
“I know he’s a good dog, but he should have bitten you.”
“Why would he do that?” Hollis takes my boots to the front door before he removes his suit jacket. Once it’s off, he starts to roll up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. With each inch, it reveals more and more ink.
Where the hell did he even come from? There’s no way his fancy sports car was driving in this weather. Besides, I would have seen it. He’s probably got some kind of invisible shield on it like Batman.
“Because you’re a stranger.” Duh. Snowball barks at the wind and tries to bite it sometimes when it blows too hard. But then he lets a whole man come in the house? You’d think Snowball knew him, but that can't be the case. Hollis has never been here before.
“Am I though?” He winks at me. What the hell does that mean? “I brought dinner, but something smells divine.”
“That’s my steak stew and sourdough.” I stand, and when I realize I’m about to go make him a bowl, I change my mind. “But you can’t have any.” There, I told him. I smirk internally. I have to take any sort of little win that I can because my defenses are crap when this man is involved.
“All right, I’d rather eat you anyway.”
"Wait.” I put my hands out to stop him when he steps toward me. My body heats with desire at the thought of him doing exactly what he suggests. The image of Hollis' face buried between my thighs makes my knees weak. “I’ll make you a bowl.”
“You cooked. So you’ll sit, and I’ll make us both a bowl.” He places his hand on my back, guiding me toward the kitchen as if this is his home.
I have a dining room, but I never use it. It's more for crafts and projects. I like to sit at the table in the kitchen because the windows face the backyard. Snowball stays in the living room and spreads out on the couch.
He pulls out one of the chairs for me to sit, and when I do, I’m aware that arguing with him doesn't work. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s kind of nice to have someone take care of me.
Hollis is right. He does always get what he wants. The thing is, what he wants always confuses me. Almost as much as the way he moves through my kitchen like he’s been in it before. He pulls out bowls and spoons and doesn't have to search for them. How the heck does he know where everything is?
"What's happening?" I ask as he cuts the bread.
"I'm serving us dinner."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You know that's not what I meant. This is getting out of control."