Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“Nice try,” he growls, voice all gravel and heat. “Thought you could sneak out?”
“It’s not sneaking out. More like trying to restore circulation,” I say, but my voice is still lazy with sleep, and I can’t bring myself to fake an escape. “Before I get up to face Monday and deal with my bossy boss.”
I feel him smile into my hair, lips pressed to the back of my head. “You could just call in sick and stay in bed with your bossy boss.”
I consider this, weighing the pros and cons of what would happen if I called HR to say I can’t make it in today because my legs didn’t work from all the illegal things my boss did to me last night. “That’s tempting, but we have so much going on this week.”
He laughs, and the sound shakes my whole spine. He’s in an absurdly good mood for someone who doesn’t believe in sleep or mornings. I peel myself free enough to roll over and face him, taking in the evidence of our wild night. My panties are hanging from the headboard, his black undershirt is wadded into a ball by the lamp, and my bra is somehow draped over the Glock on his nightstand.
Declan looks down at me with that wicked little squint, the one that says he’s plotting either a hostile takeover or round two, possibly both. His snake tattoo, coiled on his bicep, flexes as he props himself up on one elbow. The snake’s tongue flicks out, black as sin.
He drags his knuckles up my thigh, slow and deliberate. “You want coffee?”
“I want lots of things,” I say, wishing we had time for him to finish what he’s starting. “But also coffee.”
“I’ll make it,” he says, already half out of bed, but I yank him back by the wrist.
“You don’t make coffee,” I remind him. “You slip the little pod in the holder, refill the hot water, and then glare at it until it gives you what you want.”
He huffs, “It works.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Somewhat.”
He’s hovering, all tense and lean, like he’s about to start a new campaign and I’m just the first obstacle. “Get dressed, Ms. Hollister, before I’m tempted to show you my bossy side,” he orders, but then he kisses me hard before rolling off the bed, leaving me stunned and flushed and definitely not interested in pants.
By the time I’m vertical, he’s already in the kitchen, bare-assed except for boxers, putting two mugs under the coffee maker that probably cost more than my rent. I steal one of his button-downs from the closet and shuffle out, still bleary, and climb up onto a barstool. The shirt hits me mid-thigh, which means I look like I’m prepping for the walk of shame at Harvard Business School.
Declan turns, arms folded, and eyes me up and down. “You’re not wearing pants,” he points out.
“Neither are you,” I say. “I thought it was the Monday morning look we’re going for.”
“Touché,” he admits. He pushes a mug across the marble, the steam hitting me in the face, which is nice because it distracts me from the way his eyes are raking over my exposed legs.
He leans over the counter, not quite touching, but close enough I can count the lines on his lips when he says, “I was thinking about what you said last night.”
I rack my memory, sifting through a haze of orgasms and pillow talk. “I said a lot of things.” And so did he.
He ignores the snark, which is his special skill, and says, “I meant when you said you love me.”
Oh. That. I take a gulp of scalding coffee, burn my tongue, and try not to look as panicked as I suddenly feel. “Right.”
He reaches over and tugs my hair, just enough to make me look him in the eye. “Since we agree on the depth of our feelings,” he says, low and serious, “I want to make you my partner.”
I don’t know what to say. Partner? My mouth is full of a million responses, none of which seem to fit. I want to tell him that I’m ready to be his partner in everything. But the words won’t line up, so I just take another sip of coffee and hope he keeps talking.
He does. “I want us to go down to the courthouse and tie your ass to me for life. Then we’ll figure out what it takes to make sure half of everything I have is yours.”
I look down at my lap, suddenly very interested in the pattern of my own knees. “What about a prenup? To protect you.”
He scoffs, voice sharp, “You own me heart and soul, baby. There’s no way I’ll ever let you go, so I’m not worried about my money.”
I laugh despite myself, and the tension breaks a little.