Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
It’s as if he’s torn between wanting to claim me and keeping me at arm’s length, a push and pull that leaves me spinning. I want to scream at him, to demand why he can’t just admit what’s so painfully obvious. But the words catch in my throat, trapped by the fear of what his answer might be. The frustration builds, a simmering tension that threatens to boil over.
I’m tired of the games, the unspoken rules that govern our interactions. I want clarity, honesty, something real to hold onto. Yet, every time I think we’re close, he retreats, leaving me in a limbo of uncertainty. It’s exhausting, this dance we do, and I wonder how much longer I can keep up before I finally break.
I force a laugh, a ragged sound in my throat. “You think I’m that stupid?”
He watches me from the threshold, head cocked to the side. Then he comes at me in a slow, deliberate stalk across the room, every step measured. With Gage, there’s always a predator and prey, and I never know which one I am until it’s too late. He doesn’t ask before sitting on the edge of the bed; the mattress dips under his weight, and the scent of diesel and smoke hugs the air between us.
He’s so close I can see the brown flecks in his eyes. “You thinkin’ about that biker?”
I hold my breath, keeping calm.
I shrug. “He’s nothing. Just a guy who happened to save me.”
Keep it casual.
“Sure,” Gage murmurs. There’s a dangerous patience in the way he traces an old scar on my arm, one I got when he put me in a dangerous situation years ago. It’s as if he’s reminding me. He has all the control.
“You scared me,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought you were gone.”
That’s his version of love, the most he can give me. There’s no apology, only the purest possession. I can’t help it. My gut flips, the warmth pooling out from where his thumb pushes on my pulse.
He knows what he does to me. He knows the kind of twisted obsession I have with him.
He releases my arm suddenly, grip shifting to the back of my neck. He pulls me to him so we’re eye to eye, so I can’t look away or even turn my head. “If you want him, I’ll kill him.” The words are so gentle they almost sound like a promise, not a threat.
The worst part is, I believe him.
“I don’t want him,” I manage. “He’s not—”
His hand on my neck tightens. “Doesn’t matter. If he even thinks about you again, he’s gone.” He strokes my face with his other hand, thumb dragging across my bottom lip. I can’t decide if I want to bite or suck it.
Maybe both.
God help me.
Carefully, he drags me into his lap and shifts me so I’m straddling him, knees digging into the bedsheets, his cock already half hard against my thigh. I should hate it, should tell him to fuck off, but he’s the only one who can make the pain mean something other than fear.
Gage’s hands grip my hips, pressing them down until I can feel every line of him, the heat of his skin hot through the thin fabric of my shorts. He doesn’t kiss me, not at first. He just watches my face, waiting for me to break, to admit how much I want this, how much I want him.
But he already knows.
The fucking asshole already knows.
I close my eyes, only for a second, and let him push up the hem of my shirt, exposing the battered mess of my stomach. I don’t want to see it. Even now, I have refused to look at the mess those monsters made.
“Mine,” he growls, running his hand up my spine. “All of you.”
He keeps sliding his hand, shoving my shirt higher, then finally pulls me flush against him, crushing his lips against mine. I gasp, he tastes of smoke and whiskey, and I can’t help the way my body responds.
Gage rarely kisses me, but when he does, the world fucking stops.
He rips the shirt over my head, not caring when the wound tugs and I yelp. The pain is white-hot, but it clears my head enough to see the way his pupils spread, hungry, wild.
“God,” I breathe, rocking my hips. The pressure is building, building, and he doesn’t tease, doesn’t slow. He presses one hand between my legs, already soaked, and he grins, the first real smile I’ve seen in months.
“Wet, as I predicted.”
He’s already got two fingers inside me, knuckles deep, thumb pressing against my clit as I rock pathetically against him.
I shake, unable to speak. He pulls his fingers out, slow, glistening, and brings them to my lips. “Tell me how much you want me.”
“Please,” I whisper. “I want you. You know I do.”