Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 83932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“You’re not letting me go, blah blah blah… You’ve said it before.” I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Glad you’re starting to understand.” He leans forward, and I brace myself. “And just so we’re clear and you understand completely, you sealed your fate. You’re mine. That brain of yours is mine. Your body is mine. And,” he growls, leaning closer, “that pussy only I’ve had is fucking mine. You’ve been mine for a long fucking time, baby. You just didn’t know it.”
“And you think I’m the crazy one,” I mutter, turning my head to look out the window.
Feeling his hand on my thigh, my eyes fly to him. “Our pasts do not have one goddamn thing to do with what is going on between us now, and one day, when you’re ready to listen, I’ll explain things.”
“Sure.” I shake my head, pushing his hand away and turning my eyes back to the window.
“Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“And you’re a dick,” I mumble to the glass, resting my forehead against it, lifting it only to turn and glare at him twenty minutes later when I see where we’re headed.
“I told you I’m not staying at your house,” I hiss as soon as I see the limo turn down the long driveway that leads to his place. I wouldn’t even call his house a house; it’s a mansion, one of the only ones in town. The size of it is ridiculous for just one, or even two people to live in. It has to be over eight thousand square feet with upper and lower balconies, giant pillars in the front, along with a fountain in the circular driveway. Who the hell has a fountain outside their house unless they are the fricking Kardashians or the Fresh Prince of Bellaire?
“We’re getting my car, and I need to get some clothes,” he says while pulling out his cell phone, typing something on the screen that makes the whole house light up, inside and out, as we park out front.
“The driver can just take me home.”
“No,” is all he says as he shoves his phone back into his pocket and opens the door. Ignoring his hand that he holds out for me, I get out on my own and head to the trunk where my bag is stowed.
“Thank you,” I tell the driver as he sets my bag on the ground, doing the same with Dillon’s.
“Would you like me to help you inside?”
“No, thank you. We’ve got—”
“That’s fine, Tim,” Dillon says, and my teeth snap together.
“It’s really not a problem.” He smiles at me, picking up both pieces of luggage and carrying them toward the house.
“We could have carried our own bags,” I say, turning to glare at Dillon.
“Are you itching for a fight?” he asks when the driver is out of earshot, grabbing my hand and preventing me from walking away.
“No.” I attempt to shake him free but his hold tightens as he tugs, forcing me a step closer to him.
“Then relax with the attitude.”
“Don’t tell me to relax.”
“Baby,” his voice softens and his face dips closer toward mine, “I can tell you’re ready to go to war with me, but I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve had a really good weekend and we’re home now. All I want to do is get some clothes, go to your place, get something to eat, fuck you, and go to sleep with you pressed against me.”
“We are not having sex,” I grumble, looking over his shoulder. That is one thing I’ve stood firm on. Yes, somehow I’m still married to him, but I refuse to continue having sex with him until I feel more secure in what’s going on between us.
“Can’t blame me for trying.” He grins, and I let out a deep, frustrated breath, blowing a piece of hair out of my face.
“You’re not funny.”
“Stop being pissed.” He tugs my hand, causing me to fall completely into him, and his hand slides around my back so he can hold me close. I try to fight the feeling in my stomach as his mouth lowers toward mine, but as soon as our lips touch, I’m once again lost in everything that is him.
“Now,” he says softly against my lips, leaning back just an inch, “Tim has been my driver since my first flight to Tennessee. He has a daughter with autism and works days at the airport doing security. The money he makes at that gig doesn’t give him enough to get her the extra help she needs, but driving and tips do. He’s a proud man. He won’t take handouts, so I let him help with my bags if I’ve got them, or give him extra, even if I don’t.”
“What?”
“I’m not highborn, baby. I could have carried our bags or driven to the airport and parked myself, but I like helping him out the only way I can.”