Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I survey my handiwork with pride. Perfect. Except that nasty bump on the side of his face. He’s going to be feeling that for a few days, but that sounds like a him problem.
Certain that he should be starting to regain consciousness soon, I poke him in the chest. “Okay, asshole,” I say, watching his face for any signs of life. “Time to answer some questions.”
I wait a second, but Hunter remains slumped in the chair, giving me absolutely nothing, and I snap my fingers in his face. “Hunter. Hello? Is there anybody in there?”
Click. Click. Click.
Okay. This isn’t good.
Fuck. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe I hit him too hard, and in that case, it makes me no better than him. I’m a killer. A cold-blooded killer. I should be jailed.
Unease rushes through me, and I move in close to his face, only to feel his warm breath hitting my cheek. I let out a heavy sigh. Okay, I’m not a killer today. Good to know.
Waltzing into the kitchen, I fill up a glass of cold water, and without an ounce of hesitation, I toss it into Hunter’s face and step back, waiting for the cold water to work its magic.
Only the fucker still doesn’t move.
What the hell? That always works on TV.
I pace across the living room, Another One Bites The Dust more than forgotten. I’m running out of ideas here. I’ve come too far to give up now, and I can’t just leave him like this. What if he actually dies?
“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck,” I mutter to myself, pacing in front of his giant television as I promptly start to freak out. I’m definitely going to jail. I’m gonna lose Black Velvet and forever be known as the woman who let a man fuck her raw only to kill him two seconds later.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m gonna be somebody’s bitch, and I’m not sure I can handle that. I’m not cut out for prison life.
I frantically look around for something to help before my gaze collides with his fridge. There’s gotta be something in there.
Two minutes later, I’m throwing slices of hot pepperoni at his face frisbee style, before moving onto round two of dousing him with ice water. And when that doesn’t work, I let out a sigh and crouch down in front of him, getting right in his face.
“Alright, asshole. You’re gonna snap out of it and wake your bitch-ass up, otherwise, I’m gonna have to go find my largest dildo and ram it up said ass. It’ll be uncomfy, but it’s all I’ve got. And between you and me, being rammed by that thing unlubed would be enough to wake the dead.”
A groan cuts through the living room just moments before his face twists with pain, and I throw my hands up, elation rocking through me. Looks like I won’t have to live out the remainder of my life behind bars after all, but then it occurs to me that I knocked out an actual killer and being alone in his apartment probably isn’t the best place to be.
“Oh shit.”
I scramble across the room, my hand closing around the hilt of a kitchen knife, and by the time Hunter is opening his eyes, I’m braced right in front of him, the sharp blade pointed toward him.
“The fuck?” Hunter grunts, taking a moment to find his bearings as he looks around and realizes I have him strapped to a chair. “Did you . . . fuck.”
He groans and grunts a little more, and I wait patiently, not really sure how to go about this.
He pulls himself together much quicker than I anticipated. “Savage, why do I smell like pepperoni?”
“Needed to wake you up.”
“Is that why I’m soaking wet?”
“Mm-hmm.”
His face scrunches, probably recalling the flying frying pan that hit him in the head. “Tell me, Savage,” he says as a slow smirk stretches across his face as though finding this whole situation amusing. “Do you always attack the men who make you come, or am I special?”
I scoff, irritation burning through me. “First off, there’s nothing special about you, and . . . I—I don’t trust you.”
“Okay. That’s fair. But why the fucking frying pan?”
“I know who you are, Hunter Cole.”
He just stares at me, his brow arched. “Okay, Lyra. I love me a little crazy. I even love me a lot of crazy from time to time, but what the fuck are you talking about? Of course you know who I am. I took you out, remember? Introduced myself while you called me a psychopath. Any of this ringing a bell?”
Okay. I was right to hit this idiot over the head simply for being this infuriating. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then please, Savage. Enlighten me, because I’m a little confused about how I ended up taped to this chair while a beautiful woman rages at me.”