Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97724 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He walks the man to the door, tips him, then returns to me.
“I got you some soup in case you wanted something to eat,” he says as I stand. “Along with a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Are you handling me then, Mr. Blackwell?”
“I’m taking care of my girl,” he replies and presses his lips to my forehead. “What would you like?”
“Tea for now, but keep the warming domes on the others because I’ll probably want them in a bit.”
He nods and makes my tea the way he knows I like it, then he joins me on the couch.
After I take a sip, I set the cup aside, then take his hand in mine and thread our fingers together.
“Was it too soon for declarations of love?” I can’t help asking.
Beck frowns and shakes his head. “Time doesn’t matter. Shit, I knew you were it for me that day that I saw you in the bookstore months ago.”
“What day?” I sit forward, interested to hear about this. “I don’t remember seeing you at the bookshop.”
“You didn’t see me.” He grins and simply pulls me to him again, and I happily sit in his lap. “I was in a hurry, and you were there, reading the back of a book, and you were so fucking gorgeous, it knocked the earth off its axis.”
“When was this?”
“Last winter.”
I blink up at him. “Winter? But we just met—”
“We just met this spring,” he confirms. “But I saw you months before that. Then I had to work to get you to go out with me.”
Laughing, I sag against him, nestling my head under his chin.
“I guess it’s good you’re a hard worker. This is nice. When do you suppose the others will get here?”
“As soon as they can. I should have checked my phone.”
I don’t move to get off him. “I’m so tired, Beck.”
“You can go to bed, and I can handle the rest.”
“No.” I shake my head and drag my fingertips up and down his arm, enjoying the way his muscles feel under my touch. “I don’t mean that. I’m so tired of dealing with him. It’s gone on too long.”
“We’re going to figure this out, Irish. I promise. This is the last time that fucker gets close to you in any capacity.”
I don’t just want to believe him, I do. Because I know that Beckett won’t let anything happen to me.
I haven’t felt this safe in three years.
Chapter Twenty-One
LEWIS
A.K.A. The Arsehole
Tonight was worth every moment of planning, strategy, and money that it took to make it happen. God, the scent and softness of her lustrous skin. The feel of her slim body beneath my fingers. Absolute heaven. No doubt she’s hated being away from my touch as much as I’ve loathed being away from her.
But not for long.
I watched her all evening, moving around the room, smiling. Laughing. Her elegance and sophistication are so effortless.
She was with a man, but when she was finally alone, I made my move, and it was everything I’d hoped for. She’s gained weight, and that will have to come off, of course.
My tiny dancer has to look a certain way.
But her dress was beautiful, and when I leaned in to say hello and pressed my lips to her ear, I swear I heard her gasp with lust.
It thrilled her to see me as much as it did me to see her.
I had to rush to the men’s room and lock myself in a stall and stroke myself until I came all over my hand. My attraction to her is so intense. I wish I’d had time to invite her with me, to boost her up against the wall and rut myself into her until I filled her with my release.
Next time.
And there will be a next time.
As soon as I figure out where my tiny dancer is hiding, I’ll make her mine.
Chapter Twenty-Two
BECKETT
I have my lips buried in Skyla’s damp hair, quietly simmering with rage. She’s needed me to be gentle tonight, to care for her, to love her, and I’m happy to do that for her, but I’m ready to tear someone apart.
A specific someone.
Skyla startles when the doorbell rings, and I sweep my hand down her spine and back up again.
“That’s them,” I whisper and slide out from under her, then I make my way to the door and open it to find Skyla’s parents, Connor, and Mik, all still dressed to the nines, all with worried scowls on their faces as they walk past me and into the suite.
“Someone’s going to tell me what in the bloody hell is going on,” Patrick insists, his hands fisted at his sides.
I still can’t believe that her parents don’t know about The Asshole. How could she keep this from them, and for all this time?
Mik crosses to Skyla and tugs her up into a hug, then pulls back and holds her face in his hands.