Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24659 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24659 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Colt’s a prick. He acts like he hates me and doles out abuse like he’s handing out free lottery tickets.
And yet…I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Because being here means I’m with him.
Colt Ryder.
The man who used to make it his full-time job to ignore me and now can’t go more than ten minutes without barking an order at me or snapping at me for doing something not exactly the way he did it.
I used to follow him around like I was his shadow, dreaming that one day I’d make him crack a smile or he’d reach down and ruffle my hair like he cared about me. My friends all told me it was just a silly crush on a guy who was way too old for me, and they were probably right. But as it turns out, that crush has returned, only a million times stronger.
Now it has teeth and claws and has embedded itself into my heart like a virus that isn’t going away. Now when I look at Colt, I don’t wish for a simple smile or a stolen glance or a kiss like he’s a prince from a fairy tale. Now I dream about his hands snatching me by the hips and being pinned down and ruined.
And if that makes me sick, then so be it. Maybe I should be ashamed, but I’m not. Especially not when he looks at me like he’s having the exact same thoughts as I am.
I try to pretend I’m not watching him work, but I always am. When he squares off to fix a fence post or tosses a sack of feed over his shoulder like it’s nothing, I start to salivate, and my thighs start to tingle. It’s just not fair how handsome he is. He’s like a movie-star cowboy made from sweat and muscle and hard chiseled lines. And when he barks at me, his voice low and rough, I ache in places I didn’t even know could ache.
I should be ashamed when I fantasize about him dragging me behind the barn and punishing me like the brat I am, but I can’t stop myself. If anything, the fact that he’s older and off-limits just intensifies my feelings.
Last night, as I lay beneath my scratchy blanket, I closed my eyes and wondered what it would be like to spread my legs for Colt–to have him growl in my ear, tell me I can’t come unless he says so. I imagined his rough hands tugging my panties down, his jeans just low enough to let his manhood out, and him pounding me with all that force he uses on the ranch.
He’d talk dirty to me…call me trouble…
And I’d beg for more. God, I’m barely holding it together. If these nighttime fantasies continue, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
My thighs are aching from yesterday, my arms are trembling as I work, but I keep on going. I force myself through the pain because I refuse to crumble.
I am more than Colt thinks I am, and I’m gonna show that to him.
I finish the sick cow’s stall and wheel the heavy, stinking wheelbarrow out back and dump the mess where he told me. I’m so gross. I’m filthy and my hair is a major mess, but there’s honestly something thrilling about it. Something rebellious. If any of my friends from the city could see me now, their jaws would be on the floor. And that actually makes me giggle.
Colt’s a few strides away by the fence, tugging on some barbed wire like he’s trying to wrestle a goddamn yeti. He’s not looking at me, but I’d bet dollars-to-donuts that he knows I’m here. His body is a sight to behold as every muscle flexes like he’s on stage at the Mr. Universe competition.
“You done whining in there?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice rough and low.
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my skull. “Who was whining? I don’t know what you heard, but I was in there doing my damn job.”
He sets the fencing aside and turns, wiping his brow with a filthy rag from his pocket. His eyes trail down my body, slow and deliberate but punishing at the same time. They’re never soft–his eyes. They’re hard. He looks at me like I’m something dangerous…
And I like it.
“Just barely,” he counters. “And you look like hell.”
What’s this? Is he “negging” me, like those guys on the Internet say you should do when you want to get in a girl’s head?
“Um, you told me to clean out a stall filled with cow poop,” I scoff. “What’d you expect? For me to look like I’m here for a photoshoot?”
His lips twitch–barely. But I see it. Was that almost a smile? Maybe I’m finally getting under his skin.