Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
And I know how impossible that is.
I try to hide how much the cold truth breaks my heart.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Seriously.
Maybe that assault in the old mall shook something loose in my brain, and this Chris mania is just a weird way of dealing with the damage.
I should slow down and listen to reason.
I should make peace with this being temporary.
We can have our fun without going too far...right?
Right?
Later, when we’re toweling ourselves off and sliding into silky robes, then heading outside to the balcony for our morning coffee and a breakfast that arrives just in time, I feel a terrible answer.
I’m already in too deep.
Chris had me from the very first kiss.
Mine is almost an afterthought.
A grim reminder that there’s no way we’ll ever share the same room—much less a life as stepsiblings—with secret smiles and distant hugs.
Even as I smile at him over my omelet, I’m hollowed out.
Paralyzed.
What even is normal anymore?
I don’t know.
And I don’t know how I’ll ever go back to a place where I’m not falling truly and madly and hopelessly in love with Christopher Triton.
14
Black Magic (Chris)
It’s official.
I don’t know what the fuck is happening anymore.
I’ve been bewitched, cursed with a one-track mind and a glaring obsession—and if this is some evil black magic, I never want the spell broken.
I’m spending every waking minute deep inside Delia Burr.
Somehow, it still feels like we’ve barely begun to explore.
I’ve had her hot little lips wrapped around me a dozen times, watched her struggle to swallow me, and it’s not nearly enough.
I’ve jacked myself off between her perfect tits and painted her face.
Mostly, I’ve stayed balls deep in her pink, fucking her every which way from Sunday, plus several new days of the week having sex with this woman just invented.
Ludicrous?
Fuck yes.
Before, I never bothered hooking up with the same woman for a full week.
Life was sex and duty, and sex was a chore.
Barely any different from blowing my nose whenever I’d feel a sneeze coming on.
Now?
Now, it’s not so simple.
Delia has her hooks in. She’s crawled up my skull and hot-wired my brain.
That’s the real reason I want more after we’ve fucked more times than I can count.
That’s why I can’t keep my paws off her even when we’re not naked and gasping and tangled.
It’s not just because my dick never wants to rest.
When we’re out, I’m always holding her by the waist or guiding her through the glittering casinos and meandering crowds with my hand wrapped tight around hers.
It’s partly that protective instinct.
After what happened with the cartel men, she’s never leaving my sight.
But keeping her this close only makes me rage more about the men who almost stole her away.
I keep waiting for a call from Sex, something to break this holding pattern.
I want to know the coast is clear. Or better, we’ve made plans to gear up and haul ass south of the border to neutralize the threat forever.
Over breakfast, I scan the local news, but there’s nothing else about the men I killed or the follow-up investigation.
The minute I feel two slim hands on my shoulders and a throaty “good morning” in my ear, I push the paper away, falling back into her spell.
“You looked worried,” she whispers. “Is everything okay?”
My hand covers hers, grasping her fingers tight.
No. Things are not o-fucking-kay.
Not while I’m a hunted beast and too caged up to do anything about it.
“All good. Just need more coffee,” I lie.
My heart crashes against my ribs as I watch her reach for the carafe and refill my cup. Then she settles into my lap, her face pressed to the nook of my shoulder, breathing me in.
Goddamn.
For a second, without the cartel’s axe over my head, the illusion fools me.
I want to believe we could be okay.
I want to believe in we.
And even without a pack of murderous, human trafficking lunatics at my throat, that’s a dangerous fairy tale and nothing more.
Vegas is all we’ve got, and all we’ll ever be.
As I allow my hand to stroke the softness of her hair, inhaling her sweetness, I try to etch one more lie into my brain.
If this is all we’ve got, it’s enough.
But every breath of her flowery scent tells me what heaping bullshit that is.
* * *
Our last full evening out, I take her to this fancy French place.
I’ve been using my own money for everything besides the room. I’m not taking shit from her father, no matter how nice he is.
Never mind the fact that my crap almost got his daughter kidnapped.
I’ll never be the kind of high-and-mighty blue-blooded banker boy he’d probably celebrate her shacking up with, stepbrother factor aside. But when I’m dressed up in a nice vest and she’s in her new flaming-red dress, staring up at me over a glass of cab so burgundy-purple it rivals the sunset, I don’t fucking care.