Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Well, actually, no, I don’t have myself.
My hand slips.
I’m now facing a freefall down a good fifteen feet, headfirst.
I can get my hands up. I can get them up and break my fall. Even if I break my arms, I won’t break my neck. I’ll survive. I—
Don’t fall.
The floor doesn’t come rushing up at me. The bones in my hands, wrists, and arms don’t meet unforgiving hardwood. There’s no blood, no crunch, no pain.
Instead, I’m hanging headfirst over the railing, but I’m also suspended. I curl up just enough to realize my jeans got caught in the metal. I’ve been saved by my jeans.
I let out a huge breath of relief.
But it’s too much for my jeans.
“Fuck!” I yelp as my jeans start to give way to gravity. They slip an inch. And then another. The sound of ripping denim is a horror. I feel the air as they give way. Cool air tickling my overheated skin, my back, and the top of my butt cheeks.
Riiipppppppp.
This is it. I get my hands out fast and square them. I have fast reflexes, and all my self-preservation training roars to life.
My jeans give way another inch.
“I’ve got you!” a voice says as warm, small hands clasp my bottom. Small fingers get a firm hold on my bare ass and hips.
I’ve been saved again. Even if it is in the most humiliating way.
“What the hell happened?” Aspen pants. Her fingers are like claws in my flesh. On my butt. And I feel like it’s going to tear clean off as she throws her weight backward.
I’m a lot to lift up. I’m at least twice her weight, and I’ve got gravity on my side.
“You’re going to tear my arse clean off my body!” I exclaim.
“That’s your main worry right now?” she grunts.
“Can you grab my jeans?”
“Oh! Oh, shit!” She does, but she keeps one hand on my hip and ass—her fingers are like steel grappling hooks in my skin—in case I pop clean out of my pants.
She hauls back with all her weight, and the momentum jerks me up an inch. My pelvis digs into glass and metal, and I grit my teeth against the pain. But pain is all mental. It’s easily blocked out.
“Were you trying to kill yourself? Because this is not the way!” she adds.
“No! It was clearly an accident.”
“How could something like this be an accident?”
“I was trying to get the painting down,” I say.
“What?” She must turn and look behind her because I slip forward an inch.
“Aspen!” I yell.
“Oh god!” She wrenches back hard. Again. And again. I can feel her throwing herself back over and over. She’s so small, but her momentum pulls me back enough that I can finally get my hands under me.
Between her pulling at my butt and jeans and my own brute strength, I slip myself back on the right side of the railing.
It happens so fast that I practically land on top of her.
“Oomph!” We make the same grunting sound at the same time.
I quickly untangle myself, then run my hands over Aspen’s shoulders and arms, hauling her up the best I can into a sitting position to make sure she’s not hurt. She leans back, breathing hard, and her hands shoot out and frantically touch me the same way. Shoulders, arms. Her warm, soft hands send a spark shower through me. I’m already jacked full of adrenaline and caffeine, but this is something more. Something white-hot that makes the hairs on the backs of my arms and neck stand up.
I’m frozen in place, half sitting, half sprawled out, my jeans torn just about clean off my bottom, such that I feel the cold cement of the step beneath me.
“Rick!” Aspen lunges forward and throws her arms around my neck.
I was infused with heat, but now I’m ice cold as she hugs me. Tight.
I can’t remember the last time I was hugged. Jace and the rest of the guys weren’t the type to do something like this. We slapped each other on the back, shoved a shoulder, or clapped a hand around the neck or the arm. We breathed together whenever we escaped a risky situation intact with our lives. We didn’t hug.
Even if we had, Aspen wasn’t one of the guys.
Not with her soft breasts slammed up against my chest, round and pert under her T-shirt. She’s warm but not sweaty. Not like me. I realize I’ve soaked my T-shirt. I feel cold and clammy, and I’m stuck like this. I can’t move. My chest won’t expand to breathe. She hugs me tight, her face pressed to the side of my neck.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
She starts shaking, but my arms are useless at my sides. I should wrap them around her. I should hold her. She’s scared. She smells like sleep, fresh air, and terror. I need to hug her back, hold her, and reassure her that nothing happened. I’m not a squashed melon down there at the bottom of the stairs. It’s all good. My training won’t let me be a squashed melon, but I’m unhurt because of her. We both are.