Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
He’s glorious.
His eyes are shut, his mouth hanging open slightly as he comes. His whole body shudders, and his grip on my hair tightens. He grunts naughty words through his release. Which cause my core to pulse with need.
Who have I become?
The morning sun filters through the windows, casting soft, golden light across the living room. I’m seated cross-legged on the floor, sorting through my collection of crystals and beads, but my thoughts are miles away.
Ranger.
I glance toward the kitchen, where he’s leaning casually against the counter, coffee mug in hand. He’s still in his sleep-rumpled T-shirt and sweatpants, his dark hair slightly mussed. It’s almost unfair how effortlessly good he looks.
I try to focus on the crystals in front of me, but my thoughts keep circling back to him. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by logic and reason, by the steady, unchanging world of science. But Ranger? He’s none of those things. He’s a storm—unpredictable and overwhelming, but in the best possible way.
And the thought of going back to my regular life after this? It feels impossible.
How am I supposed to return to days filled with lab work and quiet solitude, knowing what it feels like to have Ranger by my side? To see the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters?
“Whatcha working on?” His voice breaks through my thoughts, and I look up to see him strolling toward me, his coffee still in hand.
“Just organizing,” I reply, holding up a small, shimmering crystal. “Trying to decide what to work with next.”
He crouches beside me, his presence grounding and magnetic all at once. “You think you could teach me?”
I blink at him, surprised. “Teach you?”
“Yeah,” he says, his lips twitching into a small smile. “I’ve been watching you mess with these crystals and wires for days, and I’m curious. Think I’ve got what it takes to make something?”
I laugh softly, the idea of Ranger making jewelry both amusing and oddly endearing. “Sure,” I say, scooting over to make room for him. “Let’s see if you’ve got any hidden artistic talent.”
We spend the next hour on the floor, surrounded by beads, wire, and tools. I show him how to wrap wire around a crystal, how to secure the ends, and how to create a simple clasp. His big hands are surprisingly steady as he works, and he follows my instructions with a focus that makes me smile.
“Not bad,” I say, examining his first attempt—a slightly lopsided pendant. “It’s a little crooked, but for a beginner, it’s pretty good.”
“Lopsided has character,” he quips, and I laugh again, shaking my head.
As we work, the conversation flows easily. We talk about nothing and everything—favorite foods, childhood memories, even embarrassing moments. I learn that he once fell off a bike during a middle school race and refused to cry in front of his friends, and he learns that I once accidentally spilled sulfuric acid on a lab coat during a high school chemistry experiment.
“Science nerd problems,” I say with a grin, and he chuckles, his laugh low and warm.
By the time we’re done, I’ve decided to make something for him—a simple bracelet using dark, smooth stones and a leather cord. He watches quietly as I thread the stones onto the cord, tying the ends into a secure knot.
“Here,” I say, holding it out to him. “For you.”
He takes it, his expression unreadable as he examines the bracelet. “You made this for me?”
I nod, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean, it’s nothing fancy, but…”
“It’s perfect,” he says, his voice soft. He slides it onto his wrist, the leather fitting snugly against his skin. “Thank you, Tory.”
The way he says my name makes my heart stutter, and I look away, focusing on tidying up the scattered beads and tools. “You’re welcome.”
Later that evening, we settle onto the couch to watch a movie. The safe house has a decent collection of DVDs, and we pick an old action flick that Ranger insists is a classic.
“Get comfortable,” he says as he grabs the remote, and I take his advice, curling up against the armrest with a blanket draped over my legs.
But when he sits down beside me, leaving a gap between us, I hesitate. For a moment, I consider staying where I am, keeping things light and casual.
But I don’t want casual. Not with him.
I shift closer, sliding under his arm, and he doesn’t hesitate to pull me against him, his warmth wrapping around me like a second blanket.
“Better?” he murmurs, his voice low in my ear.
“Much,” I reply, resting my head against his chest.
The movie plays in the background, but I barely register it. I’m too focused on the steady beat of Ranger’s heart beneath my ear, the way his hand rests lightly on my hip, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles against my side.