Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I’m just about to draw in a relieved breath when he produces his knife from somewhere, probably his pocket, and my heart thuds. Flicking it open in his hand, he orders, “Hands up.”
I look at the knife for a second. “What?”
“Can’t do this with tied hands, can you?”
I blink. “Y-you… You’re going to untie me?”
His eyes narrow a bit. “You gonna run out on me?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“So then,” he repeats with a dip of his chin, “hands up.”
I open my mouth to tell him that it’s okay. The rope has enough give to allow me to work on him with my hands tied, but then I realize how crazy it sounds. Nothing has changed, remember? I’m still his captive. If he wants to untie me, I should jump at the chance, not politely decline. So I curl my fingers into a fist and put them up in front of him. And without taking his eyes off me, he cuts the rope in the middle, all deftly and quickly.
But before I can go free, his fingers wrap around my wrist, just under where the rope left its mark. “It worked.”
His touch makes me flinch and raises chill bumps up and down my arm. “What worked?”
His dark eyes rove over my features. “Lettin’ you ride my mouth last night.”
I gasp. “That… You… What?”
His fingers squeeze my wrist slightly. “The wild little filly ain’t so wild anymore.”
My cheeks burn. “I don’t…”
“Shoulda done it sooner.”
“You shouldn’t have done it at all,” I retort finally.
“If you say so.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Not from where I was lookin’.”
“And where were you looking from?”
“From between your juicy thighs.”
“You’re such a—”
“While gulping down your orgasm number four,” he finishes.
“You…” My cheeks burn harder as I correct, “Three. It was only t-three times.”
He leans forward, and I try to ignore how his abs contract with the motion. “I’d believe you, if drinking from your cunt didn’t feel like shooting tequila. And trust me when I say, I know how many shots I had. By the time you were done squirting into my mouth, my jaw was drippin’ and my chest was drenched. I was so drunk on your ripe little pussy that you could’ve stabbed me with the knife I gave you and I wouldn’t feel it.”
“I-I forgot I had it,” I confess like an idiot.
His eyes flash with heat. “I forgot the whole fuckin’ world and everyone in it while eatin’ your pussy, darlin’, so I guess we’re even.”
“Please don’t,” I hiccup, “call me darling.”
“You tell me what to call you and I’ll call you that.”
“My n-name.”
“Yeah, what’s your name?”
I almost tell him then. I even open my mouth, sound out the syllables in my head, before I realize what I was going to do. Then, whispering, I say, “You know what my name is.”
His eyes grow intense and so does his hold on my wrist. “Tell me again anyway.”
With a pounding heart, I lie, “Peyton.”
“Peyton,” he repeats.
I don’t know why, but again, for a second I think he knows. Somehow he’s figured it out, my lie, and he wants me to admit it. But I remind myself that’s impossible. Still, it scares me so much that I blurt out, “Can I please just… dress your wounds?”
He runs his eyes over my features for one last time before letting my hand go, and I breathe out in relief. I finally break eye contact and focus on the task. I pick up the kit and fish out the rest of the things I need to clean and bandage his cut. Then, I try to switch off everything. The fact that he smells like the woods, the water, and clean and crisp leaves; his skin is all damp and bronzed, and there are still droplets clinging to his tight muscles. Or how small I look on my knees before him. How his body seems mountainous and towering, giving me shade under the sun.
My hands tremble when I reach up and dab his cut with the swab. I go about it lightly because I know it must sting. I also mutter a quiet sorry, but if it does hurt him, he doesn’t show it. He sits there, still as a rock or as the mountain I just compared him to. Still and staring. And honestly, why not, because he’s had a lot worse with that brand on his back. The first letter of revenge, Rawhide, and Reverie. I wonder if the Turners did that to him and if that’s why he’s so hell-bent on revenge.
“The land you talked about buying,” I say, surprising myself.
In the light of day, the moment when he shared that with me seems to have been very raw and vulnerable. And maybe I should just let it lie. I shouldn’t get myself involved. It’s none of my business. And by his reaction, it definitely seems so. He goes all alert, his tanned muscles going taut. Still, I keep going: “Is that… Do you still want that?”