Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Maybe I’ll go to the bar again. Noah won’t be there. He said he was heading home. Perhaps a drink with a stranger. We don’t even need to exchange names. We could go to a hotel, have meaningless sex to help me clear my mind for a little while. But then I remember the only hotel in town is a place I’m not stepping foot into.
I take the turn that leads to downtown, but before I hit the main street, a face pulses through my mind. A smile. A promise. Dimples.
But then . . . another face flashes—not his, but his father’s.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white and force my thoughts back to Noah—how he showed up tonight, how he somehow charms me even when I’m feeling uncharmable. He can make me forget.
I turn the steering wheel and make a sharp right at the last second. No longer headed for the bar and a drink and a stranger, instead headed for Noah.
His house is dark, silent. I glance at the clock—9:40. Not too late. He did say he’d be home. But maybe he went to the bar instead, or maybe—maybe he went to sleep? I slip out of the car, unbothered by the idea of waking him. At the front door, I knock lightly, then almost immediately try opening it, and it whispers as it swings wide. Never in a million years would I have let myself into a man’s house before today, not even Sam’s. But my adrenaline is pumping, and I justify my actions by telling myself Noah left it open for me.
I step in, listening for him—for any sound at all.
But there’s nothing.
I remove my shoes and pad silently through the downstairs of his dark home. No one is down here, so I continue over a rug, up the stairs, until I reach the hallway leading to his bedroom. A shallow stream of light slices across the floor. I inch up, lean forward until I can see him. He’s sleeping in bed, head resting on a thick pillow, the comforter pulled up over his hips, but his chest is bare, abs showing. Their definition is apparent, even in this gray half-light. I stand there for too long, just watching him, tracing the outline of his jaw, his straight nose, with my gaze.
The way Mr. Sawyer watched me.
A rush of emotions hits—anger, vulnerability, sadness, hatred, and last, though not least, desire. Isn’t that what always got me in trouble? My sins, as my mother would say. Maybe. Definitely. But right now I don’t care. The desire is too strong. I picture it: stalking across the room, waking him from his slumber by biting his collarbone or gripping his hair in my fist, drawing a cry of pain. I’m not in a healthy place mentally, but I’m with it enough to know that my wanting to inflict pain, on Mr. Sawyer’s son of all people, is fucked up.
Maybe I’m more Jocelyn right now than Elizabeth, and I want revenge. There have to be a million psychological reasons for me wanting to hurt Noah Sawyer, but I’m not willing to stop and analyze any of them.
I unzip my dress, slip it from my shoulders, leave it in a pile by the door. The cool night air sends goose bumps over my body. I exhale, walk to the bed, slowly lift a knee and climb on, feeling the plush fabric of the comforter against my skin.
I’m just about to straddle his hips when Noah’s eyes flicker open. A rush of adrenaline races through my body. His lips curve into a cocky grin.
He knew. He knew I’d come tonight. Probably left the door unlocked because he was that certain of himself.
And from that smile, I’d say he’s pretty damn happy he was right.
I settle my knee, finish straddling his hips, and drape myself over him, pressing my lips to his. His hands come up, cup my jaw, pulling me closer. As we kiss, Noah reaches down, grabs my hip, and starts to move me, taking control.
But that’s not how this is going to go. Not today.
I smack his hand away, catch his wrist, and press it to the bed. A rush of power floods me as I pin it at his side. My other hand reaches for his jaw, caresses its way down to his throat, where my fingers splay wide. When he tries to sit up, to push me back, I bring my weight forward, onto my hand at his neck, and squeeze his Adam’s apple. My heart slams against my rib cage as his face starts to turn pink.
A half laugh comes from his throat, and his eyes light up—excited—as he gives in and settles beneath me. Good boy.
I make my way down his body, raking smooth skin beneath my nails as I go. When I reach the waistband of his boxers, I stop, wait until our eyes meet, then slide them slowly down, peeling at the elastic until he springs free.