Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
He isn’t looking at me anyway. He’s sprawled out on the floor, plucking away at his guitar, and taking sips of the lemonade I fixed. The slow twang of his guitar lulls me, and I drift in and out.
“If the power doesn’t come back on by tomorrow,” Killian says, pulling me from my daze, “we’re going to a hotel in Wilmington.”
I don’t bother opening my eyes. “It’ll come back on.”
He makes an annoyed noise. “We should have gone this morning.”
“Didn’t know it would take so long then. Besides, the sun’s setting. It will get cooler.”
Killian hums, which might mean an agreement or the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. I don’t care. I’m too hot.
And the heat is getting to me. I should be listless. But I’m not. I’m restless. The thick, heavy heat has settled on me, too, caressing my skin, drawing my attention to it. I’m aware of the way my chest rises and falls with each breath. Perspiration trickles down my spine, and the ice I’m slowly rubbing over my sternum melts in rivulets that slip between my breasts.
But it’s not the weather. Not really. It’s Killian sitting across the way, wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung shorts and a sheen of sweat on his toned chest. It’s the deep, rolling sound of his voice, so gorgeous it pulls at my nipples and touches that achy spot between my legs.
I shift, hating the heat that throbs there, luscious and needy. I have to fight the urge to arch my back and thrust my nipples outward, calling attention to them. Begging.
Killian sings a low, soft song I’ve never heard before. I focus on the lyrics. It’s about a man, aimless and jaded, finding solace in a woman’s smile. It’s about sex—lazy, languid sex—that goes on for days.
I want to tell him to sing something else. And yet I don’t want him to stop.
But he does. He stops and starts, and I realize he’s composing. Tingles run over my skin.
“New song?” I murmur when he pauses, messing around with a chord progression. He’s been writing since he sang with me a few days ago. And it’s been a thrill to witness. When a song hits him, it comes hard and fast. But he needs feedback, someone to work through it with. He’d told me that role had been Jax’s. Only Jax isn’t here, so the task falls to me.
After the second song he composed, I’d become attuned to this need. And so I sing the refrain now, softly, feeling out the words. “It’s good. But maybe ‘thirst’ instead of ‘lust’?” I sing it again, testing the lyrics.
Silence.
And then his voice comes husky, rough. “Beautiful.”
I turn my head. His gaze burns into me, those dark eyes glossy with heat. My stomach dips and swirls.
He doesn’t look away. “Your voice is so fucking beautiful, Liberty Bell. Like sex on Sunday.”
A shuddering breath leaves me.
God, I’m stripped by that dark gaze. And it feels good.
“You should use that,” I rasp past the lump in my throat. “‘Like sex on Sunday.’ It’s a good lyric.”
Killian huffs. “Take the compliment, baby doll.”
“Baby doll?” I glare up at the ceiling. “You’re trying to annoy me, aren’t you?”
“Honestly? It just slipped out.”
Shocked, I look back at him. He doesn’t flinch but returns my stare as if daring me to protest any further. Doing a stare-off with Killian isn’t easy. His eyes are too expressive. One little quirk of those sweeping dark brows conveys entire sentences. We have a conversation without saying a word:
Go on, tell me how you don’t like having a nickname.
I don’t.
Liar. You love it.
How would you like to be called baby doll?
It depends. Are we naked in this scenario? Because you can call me anything you want then.
Okay, I probably imagined that last exchange. That’s the other problem with staring at Killian; I become too aware of how hot he is. I have no defense against that. His chiseled features, especially that slightly pouty bottom lip, have all my thoughts drifting to sex.
Maybe he knows this because he suddenly chuckles, low and lazy. “I won,” he drawls and plucks the B string on his guitar like a victory note.
I roll my eyes and try not to smile. “Go on and write your song, pretty boy.”
“Tell me more about how pretty I am, and I will. Use specific details.”
He catches the ice cube I throw at him and slips it between his lips, sucking it with a teasing hum of enjoyment. The muscles low in my belly clench in response, and I have to shut out the sight by closing my eyes. God, that mouth. It’d be cold now. And my skin is so hot. I lick my dry lips. “You’re procrastinating.”
He huffs but then plays a few chords before stopping again. “You were right.”