Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
"But not you," he says, the words so soft I have to strain to catch them.
"Most schools weren't lining up to hire a former fashion model straight out of college. I wanted to make a difference and Bryan Gleeson was willing to take a chance on me." And now I'm on the verge of being charged with manslaughter. Sighing, I push the car door open and climb to my feet.
"Thanks for the ride," I mumble and grab my laptop before turning and hurrying up the sidewalk. Gentle gusts of air blow in from the bay, drying the tears on my cheeks, but more fall to replace them. My hands are shaking so badly, I can't even get my key in the door.
"Here, let me," Detective Lewis says, materializing beside me.
I jump, startled at his presence when I didn't even hear him exit the vehicle. Before I can tell him I'm fine, he wraps his hand around mine, stilling the shaking and sending a powerful jolt through me. I immediately drop my gaze to our hands, noticing the way his engulfs mine, so much bigger and so much warmer. Even though he's holding me gently, his fingers are rough to the touch, calloused.
"What―?"
His thumb rubs slowly across my knuckles.
My gaze flies to him to find his eyes locked on our hands. I'm thrown off-balance by his expression―like he can't look away from the sight of his darker skin on mine―by the way he smells, and by the heat unfurling in my belly.
The overwhelming desire to throw myself at him and let him ease the ache currently gnawing at my heart rushes through me. For a split second, I don't even care that he thinks I'm the equivalent of a murderer. I just want him to make me forget.
What am I doing?
I jerk backward, pulling my hand quickly from his.
My heart slams against my ribcage in a frenetic beat as he clears his throat and shakes his head slightly as if to clear it. Without a word, he inserts the key into the lock and pulls the door open, standing aside for me to enter.
"Um, thanks again," I say, my voice shaking. Ducking my head, I hurry toward the stairs.
"Miss Kendall," he calls from behind me.
I don't turn around, instead jogging up the stairs, my laptop bouncing against my hip with each step. I just want to get inside before I do something completely stupid. His opinion matters to me for some reason, and he already thinks the worse. I don't want to give him more incentive to drag me off to jail.
He seems to have other plans.
I hear him following me, his steps steady as he calls my name.
The sound sends panic thrumming through me. I pretend I don't hear him and keep going, quickly racing away, praying he gives up and goes back to his car. I burst out of the stairwell on the fourth floor, breathing heavily. Hurrying toward my door, I reach into my pocket for my keys. Except I don't have them.
He does.
"Why me?" I groan, dropping my head to the door as defeat courses through me.
I'm still standing there when he steps up behind me less than a minute later, so close the heat of his body scorches me. A shiver rolls through my body at the feel of his warm breath blowing just inches from my neck. Fine strands of my hair shift with each exhalation from his lips.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to run from a cop?" he asks, his voice pitched low. He doesn't sound angry though. He sounds…turned on. Before I can react, he cages me in with his arms, one resting on the doorframe beside my head while he unlocks the door for me with the other. He leans in, so close I can feel his lips shaping his next words against my ear. "Do that again and you won't be able to sit down for a week, kitten."
A whimper rolls from my lips, heat blasting through me at his threat. My core clenches, my stomach contracting.
I spin around to face him, banging the back of my head against the doorframe in the process.
His eyes are on fire, lust and frustration turning them a stormy gray.
"I―"
"Inside," he commands, leaving no room for argument in that single word.
I swallow convulsively as he pushes the door open and backs me inside, stalking me.
I have no idea what he's going to do when the door closes behind him. Spank me? Fuck me?
A case of nerves―or overpowering desire―makes me tremble.
He notices. Something flares in his gaze, that same wicked something that drew me in at Mitch's and again at the Red Room. That naughty, bossy bastard who knows exactly how to bring a girl to her knees. The one who knows precisely how far to push to make her beg for it and how much pleasure she can handle before she breaks. That look should be illegal. He hasn't even touched me, and I think I'm going to come.