Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
If my gut was saying that Sylvie was someone I should be around more, that was what I was going to do.
Besides, I think fucking Nitro would run away from home to go live with her if she suddenly up and left our lives.
“So what’s the plan now?” Sylvie asked.
“Now, I’m going to go ahead and put up some of my own cameras around this place,” Junior said. “Hidden,” he added. “See if I can catch him around here again. That would make shit a fuckuva lot easier. So don’t lock any of the windows or anything. Try to make it all look like it looked when he was here last, so we don’t spook him.”
“Happily,” Sylvie said, shrinking away from her bed as she passed it. “Thank you,” she said, turning back to Junior. “This sounds like a lot of work. I feel kind of bad.”
“Don’t feel bad,” he said, giving her a smirk. “He’s paying for it,” he said before turning back into the room, likely to look around for the best spots to place cameras.
Alone, Sylvie’s gaze slid to mine.
“I’m paying you back.”
“No.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Fuck. No.”
“Come on, you’re being unreasonable. This is my problem.”
“It’s mine too.”
“Oh, my God. If this is still about the stupid guilt thing…” she said, rolling her eyes.
To that, I took a couple steps closer, ducking my head a bit as I towered over her.
“Think we’ve established it’s more than that now.”
With that, I turned and walked out.
She followed.
And everything was silent the whole ride home.
I was starting to think that I’d fucked up, that she was not in the same frame of mind about shit that I was.
I thought that.
Until I came into my room after dinner to grab some clothes out of my dresser.
And the woman fucking attacked me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sylvie
I was an idiot.
I mean, of course Junior was getting paid.
How naive of me to think that just because he was a friend of the club, he was doing this seemingly big job as a favor.
The man had files on everyone I had practically ever known in my life. Including search histories and private messages.
That was a lot of effort.
No one was going to do all of that for free.
The second he told me, though, the guilt and embarrassment that flooded my system had me almost feeling dizzy.
I mean, Jesus, Voss probably thought I was a complete asshole for not at least offering to pay, to just assume he was going to do it.
That worry lasted all of, you know, ten seconds.
Before he went all Voss on me.
I mean, really, that man had no right to be as sexy as he was when he was being all bossy and alpha. And I had no right, as a modern, independent woman, to be as turned on as I was by it.
Alas, there was no telling my vagina that it was very backward to be so eager to fuck a guy like him.
Besides, the man actually confessed to wanting to be, you know, more. Sure, he didn’t exactly specify what he meant by ‘more than that,’ but I could infer.
At the very least, he wanted us to fuck.
Which, yeah, we’ve established I was on board with.
If that was all it was, then, I guess I couldn’t complain. But if he actually meant more than that, I would be cool with that too.
In fact, some part of me was eager for it to be the latter. Which was weird because I’d finally been at a point in my life where I wasn’t really interested in being with a guy.
The universe liked to laugh at your plans like that, I guess.
We left my apartment and made our way back to the clubhouse where Brooks and Fallon almost immediately scooped up Voss to have some sort of meeting, so I went ahead and took a shower long enough to prune my fingers and hot enough to make my skin go beet red, feeling like I couldn’t scrub the ick off of me after the whole jerking off with my panties thing.
Clean and clear-headed, I figured I might find Voss, take his hand, lead him back to the bedroom. Finish what we started in my bathroom.
But then Sully asked for my help peeling potatoes for dinner. Then stir the pasta. And the sauce.
“I am starting to suspect you are trying to teach me how to cook right now,” I concluded, giving him small eyes when I caught him just standing back, watching me, not “getting other ingredients” like he’d claimed. “Against my will, I might add.”
“But look at you. You’re doing it,” he said, all boyish smile and bright eyes.
“I will never offer to help you again. Next thing you know, you’ll be teaching me how to fix the oil in my car.”
“You don’t know how to fix the oil?” he asked.