Wrong (#1) Read Online Free Book L.P. Lovell, Stevie J. Cole

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Bad Boy, Contemporary, Crime, Dark, Erotic, New Adult, Romance, Suspense Tags Authors: , Series: Wrong Series by L.P. Lovell
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Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
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“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ at the end of the word, and that causes him to narrow his eyes on me, almost condescending. “Drunk Ria is finding you much more tolerable.”

I try to focus on what I know will be a scowl on his face, but my vision is still blurred. Fuck, I’m more pissed than an owl in socks. Not my brightest idea.

“Let’s see how long it takes drunk Tor to throw up.” The bastard is smirking over his glass at me.

A waitress, if you could call her that, prances over, stopping behind us. She tosses her bleached-blonde hair behind her shoulder and wiggles her hips. I can’t help but watch her boobs. They’re bigger than my bloody head. I place a hand each side of my head and try to compare it. Jude cocks an eyebrow at me. What? I mouth at him.

“Would you like some more drinks, JP?” she asks.

“Yes!” I shout, at the same time as Jude growls no. I shove my erect middle finger in his face as I smile at the waitress. “Tequila!”

Another annoyed groan rumbles out of him, and he’s rubbing both his hands down his face. I swear to God, he sounds like an animal, like an actual growling, snarling animal. The waitress scurries away, fake boobs bouncing as she goes. I don’t blame her. Cheery here isn’t exactly the best company.

He points at me. “You don’t need another fucking drink, woman. Your fucking eyes are crossing already!”

“I can still see and hear you, which means I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.” I smile and turn up my empty glass.

“Oh,” he nods, one brow arching, and I can’t tell if he’s angry or challenging me. “You want to get drunk? I’ll get your ass drunk.” He grabs a waitress passing by. “Six shots of tequila.”

I watch the waitress nod and prance off. “Fina-fucking-lly,” I drawl. “You’re so….gnarly all the time.”

I catch a slight grin flicker over his lips. “Hmm,” he laughs. “Don’t really know any other way to be, doll.”

Two hours and fuck knows how many tequila shots later, and I’m so pissed that even arsehole extraordinaire over here isn’t seeming that bad. In fact, he’s looking pretty fucking hot. I squint and focus on his bulging biceps, the ink of his tattoos bringing a whole new level of sexy badass to the table.

“You’re really hench,” I slur as I hang off Jude’s arm. We’re leaving apparently, but it’s slow progress. I can’t feel my legs...or my face...or anything, really. I’m beautifully numb, and everything just seems so much better.

“Hench?” He glares at me, dragging me toward the door. “Would you speak fucking English?”

“Muscley. Pretty.” I grope at his arm. “You’re really pretty.”

He’s so pretty. I want to touch him. I reach out and stroke his face.

“Okay.” He jerks his head away. “I’m not a fucking dog,” he says, and then proceeds to stumble into the wall.

I laugh, and point at him. “You are definitely a dog...and a rat. A drunk rat.” What am I even talking about?

He slumps against the wall, mumbling as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “Fuck, I can’t drive.” He fumbles with his phone and drops it onto the lobby floor. “Shit.”

I bend down and pick it up, dropping onto my arse. I squint at the bright screen, trying to get my eyes to focus. “I can’t see! Fuck!”

He eyes me, his gaze narrowing. “That voice of yours…” he groans, taking the phone from my hands and placing it to his ear.

“Hey, I need you to come get me.” There’s a brief pause. “Just come get me. I’m at the titty bar.” He groans and shoves his phone back in his pocket. He shakes his head and looks around. “You can’t be all sprawled out on the floor of my club.” Bending over, he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. “You need fresh air anyway.” He carts me out of the doors and into the parking lot.

“Jude.” I try to struggle, but I can barely lift my own arm. The air is cold, but I can’t feel it. I have my alco-jacket. I have to close one eye to see straight. The club gets farther away as we move deeper into the shadows. His breathing is ragged and with each step his grip on my thigh tightens. He stops under the shadow of a tree. I can’t see anything and I have to squint in the dim light from the club. We’re far enough away that no one can hear us. No one can see us.

He puts me down, my body sliding over every inch of his on the way down. I wobble slightly and his arms tighten around me, pulling me against him. He says nothing for what feels like forever. His eyes are locked on mine, a dim green in the fading lights of the car park. His hand moves, his fingers inching under the hem of my top to brush the skin at the small of my back. My skin prickles under his warm touch. I’m drawn to him like a moth to a very sparkly, very pretty flame. What the fuck? I frown as I try to work through my tequila-induced fog. What am I doing here? How did this happen? Shit. How much did I drink? You know it’s too fucking much when the murderous psychopath is starting to look appealing. Well, technically he’s my protector now. Does that make it okay? Fuck knows. My drunken mind can’t work this out right now.


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