Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
“Right.”
“Okay, I can’t touch you now. But I can promise I’m gonna take care of you, Mo.”
“That’s a tall order, Lottie.”
And she just had a piece of Afghanistan.
She had no idea about all the rest.
“I’m goal-oriented, baby,” she said quietly.
Mo stood still, eyes on her, and breathed.
“Do you need to hand me off to another one of Hawk’s men?” she offered.
Oh, hell no.
“No one is on you but me,” he growled.
She nodded immediately.
Then she smiled.
Not victoriously.
Gratefully.
“You wanna watch TV?” she asked.
“Sure,” he answered.
“Game’s on,” she said.
“Whatever,” he muttered.
“A movie?”
“Works for me.”
“Mo?”
“What?”
“Thank you, honey.”
“You need to stop it, baby,” he said, going soft.
She nodded, a lot and fast. “Right. Right. All professional.”
Like she could pull that off.
But at least she’d have a mind.
And after that…
He’d let himself think of what was after that when it was actually after.
“I’ll make popcorn,” she said.
“I’ll do a perimeter check.”
She smiled huge at him.
Huge and happy.
So…
Right.
When all was said and done, he might come out a winner for once, or he might be ground to dust.
But he knew right then it didn’t matter which way that broke.
Just as long and as much as humanly possible in the meantime, Mo had a shot to make Lottie happy.
CHAPTER 7
INCREMENTAL
Lottie
The lights went dark.
I rushed off the stage and Mo was there, throwing my robe over my shoulders.
He smelled good. Clean. Like soap and man.
He’d had his shower and was back to me before my set ended.
I wanted to pounce on him.
Instead, I shoved my hands through the arms and barely had my fingers to the sides to pull the robe closed before his big hand had a powerful grip on my upper arm and he was practically dragging me down the steps to the side hall.
It was Tuesday night.
Suffice it to say, Mo knowing where it was heading between us after the threat was over, and me knowing where this was going, we were impatient for it to get done.
But Mo being all that was Mo, his impatience, like everything else about him, manifested itself in much larger ways.
The man was a ticking time bomb.
This partly had to do with him wanting to get to know me better, and it was hard (very hard) to try to keep things casual, keep a distance, be professional, when we were together twenty-four hours a day.
We cooked together. We ate together. We watched TV together. And after putting a sheet up over the windows (something I did not like, but getting what I got after, that being hanging with Mo, I was okay with it) Mo lounged on the couch opposite mine in my bedroom with his eyes closed while I read. Even with eyes closed, I knew he was awake, looking Zen (and insanely fuckable), but he was also undoubtedly alert.
We talked.
We had no choice but to get to know each other better and I knew I liked what I got (even though he wasn’t much of a talker, and as the days went by, he got quieter and quieter due to his patience waning more and more).
I also knew he liked what he got.
From when we first met, Mo didn’t need words to communicate. And the increase in dancing silver eyes and the addition of soft looks he’d give me…
Man.
Yeah.
This had to end soon.
Mo’s ticking time bomb thing also had to do with the big lug wanting to sleep with me.
And by the by, I adored that he’d referred to it during our Come to Jesus as making love.
But he was very much all guy, and men needed to get some, he was sleeping in my room, living in my home, watching me strip. The need for him to do me was so strong, it had a taste, it had a smell, it had a feel, it was constant and grew more powerful every day.
Not being able to take it there had to be torture.
I knew, because it was torture for me too.
And it was getting worse every day.
Last, but I had a feeling this was the biggest part, Mo’s impatience had a sharp edge that I did not think had to do with him wanting to take me out to dinner and ask my favorite color then take me home and fuck me stupid.
It had to do with the fact that this guy hadn’t been caught yet and there was something really not good about that.
I didn’t ask. If Mo felt I needed to know, or wanted me to know, he would tell me.
More, I was thinking it was another way he was protecting me. And he was that guy. He needed to give that to me.
So even though none of this made me want to jump for joy, I didn’t push it with him.
Like I didn’t tell him his grip was too tight and that he needed to slow down or I’d break my neck on my platform stripper shoes while he dragged me to the dressing room. A place I knew, because he communicated (nonverbally) he thought was a safe zone, unlike the stage (definitely) and the hall, and anywhere else that was accessible or visible to people he might not know.