Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Swallowing down all the air he was storing, he shifts and winces when he rubs into my thigh with his cock. He quickly pulls himself back around, though, obviously locating a force of will that has abandoned me. Releasing my wrists, he pushes himself off of me, leaving me feeling stupidly deserted.
“Get a good look, did you?” he says, moving away.
I feel like I’ve just been slapped in the face, all desire and want tumbling away at his curtness. I fly into defense mode. “Do you always sleep half-naked on a client’s couch?” I ask shortly as I stand and wrap my arms around my torso, backing away to my room, feeling so bloody stupid. What was I thinking?
“Do you always make a habit of falling out of bed?” he retorts over his shoulder.
I cringe and curse myself to hell and back at the realization that he was awake the whole time. Of course he was. If he was asleep and thought I was an intruder, that gun would have been pointing at my head, both in my room when I fell off the bed and just now when he tackled me to the floor. He didn’t even grab his gun. He just grabbed me instead. He was dazed…and then he was mad. With me. The notion pulls at my gut for reasons I may never know. Shutting my bedroom door, I let my back fall against it and look up to the ceiling in despair, feeling like a fool. “Stupid!” I force myself to sit on the end of my bed and spend a good half hour talking some sense into myself. Jake Sharp shadowing me is proving more of a problem than I ever imagined.
* * *
After showering and getting myself ready, I emerge from my bedroom tentatively, wearing some denim shorts and an oversized gypsy top, my Havaianas on my feet. I’m braiding my rough-dried hair as I wander through my living space to the kitchen, my eyes darting, looking for Sharp.
I find him leaning against the worktop, showered and looking obscenely fresh and handsome in some worn jeans and a round-neck black T-shirt. So he found the other bedroom and bathroom, then? He looks up at me as I enter, his mobile poised at his ear. I quickly look away and head for the fridge, pulling out a bottle of grapefruit juice and glugging down half the bottle in one go.
“Appreciated,” he says, not sounding appreciative at all. “Good-bye.”
I keep my back to him, still hugely embarrassed, dying on the inside that I practically offered myself on a plate and he didn’t take it. If he didn’t think I was a stupid little girl before, then he most definitely does now.
I hear a shift of movement behind me, followed by a light cough. I start to screw the cap of my bottle on, mentally locating the whereabouts of everything I need before I leave.
“You didn’t mention there was a spare room with a bathroom,” he says clearly, with no accusation, but I sense it’s there. “It’s actually tidy in there.”
He’s having a dig. The only reason my apartment is such a mess is because Heather and I have been busy perfecting our designs, scrutinizing fabrics and brainstorming marketing ideas. Not that I owe him an explanation. So I say nothing and go in search of my bag. I find it and head for the door, looping the strap over my shoulder as I go. Making a grab for the handle, I pull the door open, but his palm slams forward over my head, keeping the door from swinging open. I curse myself for jumping.
“Since I accepted your ground rules, you can do me the decency of following one of mine.” He speaks from behind me, holding the door shut over my shoulder. I scowl at the wood before me, keeping my mouth firmly shut and my back to him. “Don’t ever creep up on me again.” He pulls his hand away and I waste no time reaching for the handle again and letting myself out, shrugging off the tingles spiked by his closeness.
“Are you forgetting who is working for who?” I snipe as I bypass the elevator and push my way into the stairwell, not prepared to stand and wait for the lift. I need to keep moving. Away from him.
He doesn’t answer my question; neither does he acknowledge it, choosing to follow quietly. Good. He’s respecting my boundary. No talking.
I break into the underground car park and aim my keyfob at my Mercedes, striding over. “Can you move your car, please?” I call over my shoulder.
“We’re going in my car,” he says flatly.
“I can drive myself.” I pull my door open and throw my bag in before dropping into the driver’s seat. I start the engine and yank my belt on, looking in the rearview mirror. Sharp gets in his Range Rover, and I hum to myself, satisfied. Maybe he’s decided he can’t bear being so close either and has decided to retract his rule of traveling with him. Good.