Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
But my new employer seems completely at ease. He sips his coffee, then gestures for me to follow him. “You should see the rest of the place. In case of fire. Or, you know, zombies.”
I follow, trying not to stare at his back, at the ripple of his muscles under skin, at the way his ass looks in threadbare sweats. He gives me the grand tour: the library, which is mostly crime novels and psychology texts and a few old Playboys for “artistic reference”; and the laundry room, which smells like bleach and pine.
He opens a heavy door at the end of a hall—his office. It’s dark, paper-cluttered, the air charged with the violence of unfinished stories. “This is my cave,” he says. “Stay out unless I say otherwise.”
I nod, again, tongue-tied by the intensity of the place, the man, the everything.
He leads me upstairs again, to my room, points out the big closet and the attached bathroom. “If you need extra towels, feel free because they’re in there. If you want to order anything special, write it down and I’ll see if we can get it in town on the next haul.” He glances at my suitcase. “You travel light.”
“Didn’t know how long I’d be here,” I admit.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watches me. “That’s up to you.”
For a second, I want to ask what that means. Does he want me gone? Is he waiting for me to bail?
But then Talon smiles, that handsome smirk again, and the feeling in the room changes.
“Anything else you need?” he asks.
I shake my head, clutching the coffee like a weapon.
He nods, pushes off the frame, and disappears back down the hall.
“I’m going to get ready,” he calls. “Feel free to get ready too.”
The silence after he leaves is like a pressure drop. I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to process it all—the house, the job, the man, the way my body won’t settle down. I reach for my phone, try the number for Sweet Lies again, just in case. Nothing. I even step onto the balcony, holding my phone aloft like a nerd, but all I get is the clean, cold air and the echo of my own heart pounding.
He’s right. I’m alone here, cut off. If he’s dangerous, I’m already dead. If he’s not, I’m going to have to survive being this turned on, all day, every day, while pretending I’m just a normal, competent human who isn’t already composing a pornographic fan fiction in her head about her boss.
Later, I see Talon out the window, chopping wood again. The axe rises and falls, and I’m hypnotized by the sweat, the power, the impossible grace of it. He looks up, catches me watching, and gives me a nod—a tiny, knowing thing.
I duck back into the room, cheeks on fire.
I want to scream. I want to run outside and throw myself at him. I want to strip his clothes off before running my tongue over those dark, swirling tattoos. I want … I want … I want …
But this isn’t about what you want, the voice in my head whispers. This job is about him.
It’s right. Of course.
But for now, I’m here. I’m ready.
And I can’t wait to see what my time with Talon McKnight will bring.
5
CHAPTER FIVE – THE REAL ARRANGEMENT
Talon
The girl stands at the sink, wrists up to the elbow in suds, the sunset outside doing impossible things to her hair—gold one minute, then strawberry at the tips, then some strange new element they haven’t named yet. She hums under her breath, completely unaware that she’s alluring and gorgeous. Most people would say this is an opportunity. I say it’s a goddamn miracle.
I watch her from the far end of the table, hands folded, my eyes heavy-lidded from wine and something much more primal. Every motion she makes is an act of unconscious seduction. She’s wearing a faded sweatshirt with some ironic slogan, but she’s barefoot and the fabric rides up every time she reaches for a plate, showing a band of pale tummy and, sometimes, just a flash of panty. Is she wearing a thong? God, I love that shit but it’s too early for that. As much as I want to devour Kat, she still has no idea of my true reason for bringing her to my cabin.
She thinks I’m busy with my thoughts, maybe outlining a chapter in my head, but I’ve been watching her curves non-stop, from the moment she tripped up the front steps like she was auditioning for a midwestern porn parody. The tits are the headline, sure. You could feed a small country off those things, and she hides them like they’re something to be embarrassed about, but every time Kat laughs or shrugs, they make themselves known. Her ass is almost comically round for a girl her age—nature’s way of making sure even a monk would have impure thoughts. The waist, though. That’s the killer. She’s got the old Hollywood ratio, the one they stopped making in the late nineties. It’s almost obscene. The fact that she’s young enough for the proportions to look *innocent*—not put-on, not bought and paid for—just makes it better.