Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“No.” She grabs my forearm and pushes, unable to budge me. “Sex is a job. Nothing more.” She leans down, her brown eyes hard and cold. “You want the best orgasm of your life? I’m your girl. But if you expect more than a fuck, look elsewhere.”
My muscles tighten. My cock swells, and my chest expands with a deep, resolute breath. I leap into the saddle behind her and yank her tight against me.
“Your words are garbage, but I hear what you’re really saying.” With my arms around her, I gather the reins and touch my lips to her ear. “Your body is mine for the taking. Your heart, I have to work for.”
She stiffens. “No, I don’t want—”
“Let me tell you something about me. If you were my girl, I’d make you feel like my world. Only then would I deserve to make you feel like my slut.”
The next day, I end the training session early after a heated exchange with Lorne. I might’ve started the verbal sparring match, but dammit, he’s a moody, hackle-raising, fight-provoking egomaniac. Who also happens to be infuriatingly gorgeous when he’s mad.
We ride back to the estate in a fume of mutual displeasure, rocking together in the saddle, with his arm barred across my waist. When we reach the back porch, I move to jump off, but his grip tightens, holding me against him.
“Let go.” I shove at his bulging bicep, dismayed by the impenetrable strength in it.
“You can push me away all you want. I’m just gonna pull harder.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Because I told him I wouldn’t give him more than sex. As if I could treat him like a job.
I’m an idiot.
My words kicked him right in his pride. Of course, he’s going to flex his mighty manliness and prove he’s the one who can bring me to my knees.
But that’s not what set off the latest argument.
While I was shooting at—and missing—the evasive coffee cans, he started pressing me about my sister, my mother’s drug addiction, and the abuse I endured with John Holsten. I don’t talk about those things. I don’t examine them. But he kept digging, probing, and watching me with those eyes.
So I snapped and hit him with my temper. In Lorne fashion, he roared right back. And here we are.
Twisting in the saddle, I meet his hard gaze. “We’re not good together.”
“We haven’t killed each other.”
“We fight constantly.”
“We communicate at full volume.” He strokes a knuckle along my jaw.
I shiver. “We push each other’s buttons.”
“We challenge each other.” He cups my throat, holding, not squeezing.
“I’m a prostitute.”
Now he squeezes. “You had a job, one you will never go back to.”
My heart stops, then pounds, stalling my breaths and eating up his words.
I know this isn’t a game to him. Not to either of us. He’s thinking and saying and doing what feels right. But what’s right for him isn’t right for me.
I don’t do relationships. I have too many ugly, deep-seeded issues, and the big one is out there somewhere, biding his time until he can catch me and make my insides a thousand times uglier.
“I spent two years in John Holsten’s bed.” I pull Lorne’s hand from my throat, and he allows it. “Don’t tell me that doesn’t bother you.”
“I hate it, because you weren’t there willingly. You hated it. But I have never brought it up or used it against you. He has nothing to do with this.”
“This,” I echo.
“Us.”
I’ve never been part of an us. It sounds foreign to my ears, and I don’t trust it. “The moment I said you couldn’t have my heart, you decided you wanted it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it.” My nerve endings tremble and tingle. “Why are we even discussing this? We’ve only known each other for a week.”
“A week in which we’ve spent nearly every second together.” He dismounts the horse and helps me down. “Outside of my family, I’ve never had this much interaction with another person. I never wanted to.” He cups the back of my head and puts his face in mine. “I like this, and I want to see where it’s going.”
My pulse hammers, and I grip the front of his shirt. His lips are so close, and his warm masculine scent assails my senses as I waffle between pushing him away and pulling him in.
The wind, the silence, my gut—all of it whispers to pull, to give him a chance. But I’m nervous. Scared enough to flee. My gaze drifts toward the house.
He removes his touch and steps out of my reach. The look on his face isn’t disappointment, frustration, or any expression he’s ever shown me. The looseness around his mouth and softness in his eyes convey patience and understanding.
I’m beginning to think he really does hear me.
“Jake’s in the office today.” He nods at the house.