Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 110(@200wpm)___ 88(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
He flinches, and I realize he’s hiding. He’s been hiding behind the persona that they created, letting everyone believe the worst of him. “Lotta confidence for a woman that’s been kidnapped.”
“Borrowed. I was borrowed,” I remind him.
His hands go around my hips and through the thin cotton of my tiny skirt, his touch brands me. I’m overwhelmed with the desire to shimmy out of it and let him see my cute pink thong. Maybe let him touch what’s underneath it.
My hands find the material of his fitted shirt and I cling to it. I’m drowning and he’s my lifeboat, the only thing that makes sense in the middle of this ocean.
He lowers his head, brushing his lips against mine. He’s not gentle or sweet. No, Striker’s kiss is all domination and power and control. He’s taking what he wants, just like he did on the sidewalk. Somehow, the thought only arouses me more. His commanding touches, the way he angles my head and growls for me to open my lips only stokes the fire further.
It’s not until I hear a feminine groan that common sense returns to me. This is wrong, no matter how amazing it feels.
I shove at his chest and he pulls away. He looks just as dazed as I feel. I guess he didn’t count on our chemistry either.
“We can’t,” I tell him. Maybe if my life were different. If there wasn’t the farm and the boys to think of. But it does me no good to dwell on what I wish could be. There’s only here and now. “I should go home.”
Something flickers in his gaze. He’s not actually going to keep me here against my will. I know that on a level I can’t explain. I think I could demand anything of Striker, and he’d give it to me. For all his dominance, I’m the one that truly holds the power. The thought should delight me, but it only fills me with sadness. Because we’ll never be together like that. I’ll never know how it feels to be writhing under his sweaty body as he calls me pearl like he did last night.
“Let me at least get you fed,” he insists.
I nod and he moves around me to a cabinet. He grabs a pot and starts dumping jars and cans into it. I glance around, searching for something to talk about. There are no family pictures on these walls and there aren’t a lot of personal touches in the place. That’s when I realize that Striker is just existing. Something squeezes in my chest at the thought. He’s like me. A ghost who pretends to be among the living.
I don’t want to think on these things, so I clear my throat. “What are you making me?”
“My famous tomato soup and grilled cheese.” He stirs the ingredients in the pot with one hand while reaching for a frying pan with the other.
I’d offer to help but I don’t think Striker wants my help. He’s too self-sufficient, too used to relying only on himself. Another way we’re alike. “Who says it’s famous?”
“My brother.” His mouth lifts up at the corners as soon as he says it. Maybe he does have family around here. I hope for his sake that’s true. I don’t like the thought of Striker being in this sad house all by himself.
“And what does your brother do?” Most ranching families have multiple people working the farm. That was my big plan. I was going to earn my fancy business degree and come back to help my parents. They didn’t know that part. I knew Papa would have flipped his lid if he thought I was coming back. But Courage is home. I could never imagine living anywhere else.
“Adam repairs vacuums up in Asheville,” he explains. “Loves the work. Can talk about it for hours on end.”
I smile at the pride in Striker’s voice. You’d think from the way he’s talking that his brother designs rocket ships. “Are you close? Does he come to visit you often?”
“I drive up to the city once a week and see him.” He plates two grilled cheese sandwiches before dishing out mugs of steaming tomato soup.
I sit at the table and accept the food he’s set down. I try to remember the last time someone cooked for me. I forgot how nice it feels to get cared for. “Thank you.”
If it weren’t for that thick beard, I’d think his cheeks just went pink. But Striker quickly ducks his head, hiding his face from my view. “Seems only fair on account of I borrowed you without warning.”
I dip a bite of my grilled cheese into the warm tomato soup and chew slowly. I have no desire to rush through this meal. I’d much rather draw this out. “You told me not to marry…him. But you didn’t give me a reason.”