Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
The voices come closer and stop right outside the door. I try hard to listen but can’t make out anything.
And then it dawns on me with vivid clarity. This is perfect, perfect.
This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
I’ve wanted a firsthand look at the Cowen Clan, to see how they really function, to see how they really are. You know, get a right good taste of bona fide mafia life. I need details. All of them, and now’s my chance.
Okay, who am I kidding? I really just want to see one of those men split wood bare-chested.
Oh, God. Oh my God! I suddenly remember more details about the way I mocked him, and I absolutely mentioned things like mafia in my drunken hallucinations. Up until then, I had never once mentioned that I actually knew they were part of the mob. I sort of assumed that I was one of the few trusted outside of their Clan. But we had a sort of understanding, until last night, that I didn't actually mention mob out loud. Oh God.
I need to leave. I need to get out of here, go home, and never show my face here again.
What will they do to me if they know who I am? What have I done?
They don’t know. There’s no way they do.
How can I look him in the face, after that mockery of his Clan that I made?
And why am I more concerned about Tate than my own mates, Paisley and Islan? My thoughts are a scrambled mess.
I toss off the covers and try to get to my feet, but the ground looms up weirdly in front of me, like I’m standing in the center of a waterbed or something. I grab for something to steady myself.
Damn it. I must’ve gotten a concussion. Damn tree.
Suddenly, my heart slams against my rib cage. There they are again, voices right outside the door. Someone’s opening the door. There's a sound of the door handle turning, and then the door opens. I hold my breath.
“What the hell are you doing standing up?”
I blink. Tate. I’d know that gruff, stern voice anywhere. I’ve imagined that gruff, stern voice before, only he was saying things like, “Come here and sit on my lap, bonnie lass.”
Flush.
Please God, I did not just say that out loud in my state of highness.
“I asked you a question, lassie.” He stands, shadowed in the doorway, hands anchored on his hips. I can’t see his features because of the way the light falls, but I can tell it’s him by the wide breadth of his shoulders, the way he fills the whole doorway like an angry, vengeful god, his dark brown hair falling across his forehead.
Why is it so much hotter in my fantasies when he calls me that?
“Oh, just stretching my legs,” I say nonchalantly, but I'm trying so hard to be normal it feels forced. To prove my point, I sort of extend my legs and my toes. Stretch one leg, and then switch to the other side. He tips his head to the side curiously. I don't blame him. I probably look like a deranged ballerina.
He’s not amused.
“Get back in bed.”
“Maybe I need to use the toilet.”
“Maybe, or you do?” Again the glare, ice blue eyes beneath dark brown brows that snap together with utter disdain. The look sends a frisson of awareness straight between my thighs. I’m so shocked by the sudden turned-on state of affairs that I utter a little, “Ohh.”
I sit back down.
He rushes to me, as if to catch me.
“What is it? You alright?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just woke up all… sweaty and hot.”
Did that sound sexy to him, too?
My voice ends on a little squeak because he’s reached me, and his eyes rove over me as if he’s just seeing me for the first time. I look down at myself, as if just remembering that I could.
My full breasts are barely supported by this thin little cami. And do pain meds make nipples bigger, or is that just my high imagination?
He turns away. “Get back in bed.”
All the Cowen men are like this. I’ve wondered if it’s like a mafia thing, like all mob guys just grunt and boss people around. I’ve seen mob movies; it’s a thing.
I’m not complaining. I normally wouldn’t mind at all, but he’s a little overbearing.
“Need to use the toilet,” I say. “That’s a definite.”
“I’ll help you.”
I flush to my hair roots and blink at him. “No, sir, you absolutely will not.”
He gives me a wicked grin. “I like it when you call me sir.”
He did not just say that.
I blink and give a forced laugh that’s meant to sound affronted, but I don’t quite pull it off. “Do you?”
“I do.”
“Is that how you play all the girls?”
“No, Fran. Just you.”
Oh, God.
He continues. “Now, just to clarify. I meant I’d help you to get to the toilet. Once you get in there, whatever you need to do you can do on your own without my assistance.”