Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
“Since you strike me as a psychopath, I figured you liked it.”
“I have feelings. That makes me not a psychopath.”
“You’d be a sociopath if you didn’t. But you? Definitely a psychopath. I saw the signs long before now.”
“Hope you’re not planning to bill me for the time you spent diagnosing that, Doctor.”
He smirks. “What are you doing out so late anyway?”
“None of your business.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m not telling you a damn thing, you ungrateful asshole.”
His low laugh sends butterflies fluttering through my chest.
As much as I want to keep walking, I can’t. Being this close to him is arousing in a way I’ve never experienced before. His laugh makes it worse.
“Thank you for saving my life, Miss…?”
“Pretty,” I say. “Sadie Pretty. And you’re very fucking welcome, Mr…?”
“Weiss.” He steps closer. “Ethan Weiss. Can I buy you a ‘thank you’ dinner?”
“I would like that.”
Our first dinner lasts six hours.
Our second, eight.
By our tenth date, we’re meeting at a bar that opens early and closes long after midnight. We’ve been kicked out more times than I care to admit, and yet—he never asks me to go home with him.
I know he wants me. It’s obvious in the way he watches me, the way he listens. But unlike the boys I’ve dated before, he never tries to take anything from me. Not even once.
“Sadie?” Ethan waves a hand in front of my face during our twentieth meetup. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“I ordered you a drink,” he says, smiling. “You’ve been zoning out for a while.”
“I didn’t realize…”
“Would you like to dance?”
I nod, and he takes my hand, leading me from the booth onto the dimly lit dance floor.
The band’s lead singer is crooning some song I’ve always hated. Something about killing time instead of killing people.
“What if some people deserve to die?” I ask. “Better yet, if they do, who gets to make that choice?”
“Sounds like you need a new major,” he says. “Add psychology to your art and drama ones.”
“No, I’m just talking…”
“Hmmm.” He kisses me.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t flinch. I melt into him, wrap my arms around his neck, let his hands travel down my waist.
When he squeezes my ass, then presses his palm against my bare back, his thumb finds it. The scar.
Then it catches another.
He tilts my chin up. “What happened here?”
“Nothing major.” I fake a smile. “Just a rug burn.”
He brushes his fingers over it again.
His touch is gentle, but it burns in the worst way.
“Tell me the truth,” he whispers.
“I can’t.” I shake my head. “Just don’t look at it when we have sex. I mean—if we have sex, okay?”
He doesn’t answer. Just touches it again, then kisses my neck.
“Come home with me.”
We barely make it through the door of his riverfront condo before he slams it shut and pins me to it.
His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, rough, consuming. My fingers tear at his shirt, buttons flying, fabric yanked down his arms. He spins me toward the kitchen counter, then lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing.
We fuck like fire—fast, hard, everywhere.
The walls.
The couch.
The floor.
His bed.
My body forgets every name but his.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. He takes his time driving me over the edge again and again, learning every inch of me like a man who doesn’t just want sex—he wants to memorize me.
For once, the sex is what I want. For once, it’s mine.
And he makes sure I come every single time.
Later—breathless and flushed—we collapse in his bed, our skin still damp, limbs tangled in his dark sheets.
He runs a single fingertip down my side, slow and deliberate, until it grazes the raised scars along my lower back. His gaze lifts to the mirror. Watches the moment his touch finds the branded letters again.
“Rug burns don’t usually come with letters,” he says softly. “You didn’t do this to yourself, did you?”
I freeze. My throat tightens.
“I didn’t even know what it said for a whole week,” I whisper. “It just… kept burning. And when I could finally walk, when I saw it in the mirror...”
The tears come fast. No warning.
He pulls me into his arms without hesitation, cradling me like something precious. Like I’m not broken.
“Who did this to you, Sadie?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” His voice drops an octave—soft, but edged in steel. “Who did this?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“This isn’t a request.” His grip tightens slightly around me. “Tell me now.”
I take a breath. “He’s on a really popular football team. They might even make it to the Super Bowl this year.”
His jaw tightens. “What’s his name?”
I hesitate.
“It’s safe with me,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “I just want to know.”
“…Jonathan Baylor.”
He stills. “The star quarterback for the Falcons?”
“Yeah.” I look away. “Let me guess—you don’t believe he could ever do something like that. You think I probably asked for it.”