Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“What do you think?” Chance asks, coming back with a Ziploc baggie of ice in his hands.
“It’s pretty much what I expected,” I confess. “Clean, non-offensive, luxury . . . clean,” I repeat.
"I don’t have kids and Grace never comes here, so it’s easy to keep it clean.” Something in the way he says it makes me realize that he takes care of his space himself. There’s not a maid coming to pick up his dirty socks, and that’s sexy in an oddly mature way.
I decide to test him about the books. Pointing at the wall, I ask, “Which is your favorite?”
He tilts his head, considering the entirety of each shelf. “Probably The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
I’m surprised, not only that he’s read them all, which tells me something important about Chance—he’s not only interested in appearances—but that his favorite is so lighthearted. I thought for sure it’d be something self-improvement based and super-serious like How to Make Your First Million by Sixteen or Charm Your Way to A Cult Following.
“I think my current most-read is the DSM-5. I’m basically memorizing it at this point,” I joke. As he lays the ice over my knee, I say, “Thanks. You know I could’ve gone to urgent care.”
“Or you could let me take care of you,” he argues. His charming logic is faultless, so I lean back on the couch and let him gently probe around the ice bag at the edges of my knee, which is probably swelling beneath my jeans.
“You need to take these off so we can see how bad it is,” he suggests, a dark thread of desire woven into his husky tone. If he thinks he’s being subtle, he’s dead wrong because I can read him like one of his books. He wants me.
I lick my lips, the space between us warming quickly. “Chance, you know what’ll happen.”
The warning falls on deaf ears as he reaches to undo my jeans. I’m not worried about me, but rather, him. He had mixed feelings after what we did, or at least how we did it, and I don’t want to be something he regrets later. But he’s a big boy, and given the surety of his fingers, I help him take my jeans off, being extra-careful over my knee.
He sits on the couch, pulling the pillow into his lap and laying my leg over it once more so he has an up close and personal view.
My kneecap is pink from the cold ice, but the surrounding skin is already bruising a slight purple color and it’s a bit puffy. “Shit, Samantha,” he rumbles as his fingers brush over the discolored skin. “You want me to run you a bath? You could sit and relax, see if that helps?”
I shake my head. “Not now,” I say softly. “Maybe later.”
He continues testing around my knee, his touch delicate but still building heat throughout my body. His pinkie finger dances up on my inner thigh, and I stifle a moan as my other knee falls open to give him space to move higher.
This is no longer about my injured knee. Not even zero percent about it. This is all about hunger.
My nipples are pearled up, their bra prison causing an ache as they demand to be let free. My panties are wet between my thighs, and I wonder if Chance can see that from his vantage point.
In a desperate attempt to slow this down and give him time to think, I force conversation. “The club meeting. I remember Luna saying you mentor young men. Was that what you were doing?” The staccato breathiness makes it obvious I’m fighting for control . . . of my own wild desires.
Chance doesn’t slow his soft exploration of my thigh as he answers. “Mm-hmm. Our new club facility opened not too long ago, and hyping the guys up to keep coming, keep improving, keep growing is important. There’s too many messages to the contrary, so it’s a war I wage every day . . . for them.”
Even with his attention locked on my inner thigh, he’s brilliant. “Who are you fighting?” I ask huskily, running my foot along his thigh right up to the bulge filling his jeans.
“Toxic masculinity pseudo-gurus like Jake McGibbons, social media, news, religion, friends, and family. Even women because they get convoluted messages too. It’s a big clusterfuck . . .” he says before his voice trails off and he focuses on the delights in front of him again. “Fuck, Samantha.”
He’s trying so hard to fight the good fight, to be a good man. Every day, and right in this moment. But those curses falling off his tongue tell me he’s losing the battle and being overtaken by his dark, dirty desires.
Good thing that’s exactly what I want.
I pull my T-shirt over my head, revealing the long cami I have on beneath. He groans, sounding like a wild animal in pain as he clenches his fists, trying not to touch me. “I don’t want to hurt you.” A breath later, he adds, “Your knee.”