Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
As I begin to rinse the spilled cola from my hands, the door swings open.
“This is a fucking Brioni fucking suit,” Brandon begins, giving it the big man, throwing shapes—his chest puffed out and his arms positioned like he’s holding a rolled carpet under each. Fucking eejit.
Water drips from my fingertips as I turn from the sink.
“Listen man, you’re gonna—”
I flick the droplets in his face.
“What the fuck?” Stunned, he reaches up to wipe his face, and before he can utter another word, it’s on. Two steps, and I grab him by the balls. A little unorthodox, I’ll grant you, a little familiar, but there’s method in this madness as I manhandle him until his back hits the wall. “What the fuck,” he repeats . . . not in the same tone, obviously. A few octaves higher.
“I thought this is the way you like it,” I mutter, keeping up the accent as I basically crush his bollocks between my fingers until he squeals. “Is this not the way you like it?” Without giving him time to answer, I knock the wind out of him some more with a right to his guts. Then I thrust my forearm across his neck for good measure. “It’s not such a good feeling when it is happening to you, no?”
Men like him are the lowest. Men who claim space that doesn’t belong to them are fucking abusers and violators, every one. They’re nothing but scum.
“Hey, man,” he stutters, tears clouding his eyes. “Stay cool.”
“I am ice cool,” I snarl, straining to keep my accent from straying Irish. “But I want to know what it is about my woman. Why you have such a fascination.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bleats, his breath liquor-foul as I plant my fist in his kidney.
“Tell me!”
“She just . . . she just . . . knows, man. Everything she touches turns to gold.”
“And you think she might rub your pathetic little lamp?” I long to smash my forehead into his nose . . . but I’m not about to leave evidence of this little chat. “She is mine. ¡Hijo de puta! ¡Malnacido!” A jab to the guts. “¡Cabronazo!” Then another. Motherfucker. Son of a bitch. Bastard. Take your pick. “There is no place and no time on this planet when you will be anything to her, do you hear?”
When he doesn’t answer, I jam my arm against his windpipe.
“Yeah, yes.” A pained swallow. Tears and snot.
Fair fucks to him—no one without balls would understand how much this hurts. I could almost feel for him. Almost. “What was that?”
“I hear you—I fucking hear you!”
“You will treat her with nothing but respect. To you, she will be like a far and distant land—like ancient Egypt. Interesting but unreachable. Something you cannot touch. Unless you want to lose these for good.” I make to grab him again, and he flinches. Like I want to touch his sweaty ball sack! It’s a necessary evil, that’s all. Something to get my point across. “In fact, I don’t think you should even say her name.”
“Okay. Okay!”
“Pussy voodoo,” I spit, releasing him to collapse into a heap.
I wash my hands, muttering in Spanish and ignoring the sound of him retching and the sight of him on all fours. I’d call him a pig, but that would be insulting poor swine.
Bullies. Man, how I fucking hate them.
Chapter 9
Ryan
My heart is aflutter as I watch Matt cross the vast foyer, his gait all loose-limbed confidence and ease. Yet the look in his eyes speaks of intensity.
“I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“As if that were even possible.” He draws me to him as though this is an exchange we’ve had a hundred times. A hundred hellos and a hundred goodbyes. “They were out,” he whispers in my ear.
“Out?” I pull back a little. A bathroom out of condoms?
“I had to try a couple of floors before I found a machine not empty.”
“Really?” Pretty sure my eyes bug.
“Weddings.” He shrugs, staring down at me half amused, half in lust. “They give everyone the horn.”
“The what?” I ask with a chuckle.
“Everyone’s up for it. Weddings are notorious places for people hooking up. Stands to reason, I suppose. People dressed to impress, free-flowing alcohol, and pheromones in the air. And that is a very lovely dress,” he says as his eyes slide over me, all but taking it off.
“I like nice clothes.” My words come out shaky as anticipation tumbles hotly through me.
I treat myself to quality in all forms. It’s one of the perks of no longer being poor.
“Oh, it shows.” He pulls me close again, and my eyes flutter shut at the caress of his breath against my neck. “I’ve been thinking about peeling you out of this dress, while trying to talk myself out of it,” he adds with a dark chuckle, “since the minute you took my hand and demanded I come with you.”