Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
There was a peeling sound as, I imagined, the car pulled off.
But I didn’t move.
Not yet.
Not until I was sure it was safe.
But I did brace some of my weight onto my forearms, pressing up enough to let her take a deep breath.
She did, her chest rising up to press back into mine.
And, fuck, I noticed.
Way more than I should have.
The soft press of her round breasts against my chest.
I blamed noticing them earlier for how fucking acute my focus was on them right then, despite the danger.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
And on that third inhale, it seemed like the shock gave way to an adrenaline crash, making a shiver course through her and her nipples to pebble up and poke against me.
My stomach tensed.
My cock twitched.
And I prayed to fuck she didn’t notice. Even though my pelvis was pressed hard to hers.
I needed to put more space between us before my cock started to get a mind of its own and thicken, strain, become impossible to hide.
I put more weight onto my forearms and pushed further up, just enough so our chests no longer brushed.
As I moved, the light breeze kicked her scent up toward me, making me breathe in all that coconut that clung to her skin.
The change in position also let me look down at that pretty face of hers.
Her eyes were wide, the pupils blown wide with shock. Her sun-kissed face looked bleached. And that pouty mouth of hers was open slightly.
Fuck if there wasn’t some strange, almost overwhelming urge to lean back down again, to press my lips to hers, to feel the press of her tits against my chest, to nudge her legs open, notch myself between her thighs, then grind against her until we were both panting and groaning.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
We’d just been shot at. Yet all I could think about was dry humping her on the ground like a couple of horny teenagers.
She was a princess, for fuck’s sake.
I needed to be worried about her wellbeing, not wondering what she sounded like when she came.
“You okay?” I asked. If my voice was a little breathless, I hoped to fuck she’d blame it on the run, on the worry about getting shot, and not on some strange newfound attraction. “Hey, you okay?” I asked again when she just kept staring up at me like she didn’t know who I was. “Babe? Gracie?”
Panic clutched my chest as I scrambled up onto my knees.
My hands shot out, fingers moving over her head, her neck, down her arms, over her chest. Somehow, I didn’t even have any inappropriate thoughts as my fingers skimmed over her breasts, down the curves of her hips, down her legs. I was too busy looking for damage, for some reason that she still looked so shell-shocked.
“Are you hit?” I asked.
I was too panicked to think rationally right then.
All I could picture were the worst-case scenarios.
Gracie with blood gushing from a bullet wound.
Gracie in a hospital bed, pale, hurting.
Gracie in a pine box.
“Where are you hit?” I asked, hands going to each side of her neck, feeling for her pulse. It was strong, fast.
“I’m…” she started.
“Where?”
“Nowhere,” she managed, her voice airy. “I’m not hit.” Then, voice gaining a little more strength, “I’m not hit. I’m okay. Are you hit?” she asked, trying to sit up, but I was still straddling her body, making her give up and move flat again.
Was I?
I had no idea.
I was buzzing. I could feel my pulse in all the points: temples, neck, chest, wrists, pelvis, knees, feet. But there was none of that searing-hot pain I’d felt the last time I’d been shot.
“Perish!” a voice, masculine, called, accompanied by the thundering footsteps of not one, but several, men.
My hand went instinctively toward the holster at my ankle. But before I could make contact, I registered the voice.
Matteo Grassi.
“Is everyone alright?” he asked, rushing up to our side. “Gracie?” Matteo asked, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his panic was just for an innocent potentially being hit, or because he knew the club would not be happy if a bullet meant for him ended up in a princess instead.
“I’m okay,” she said, finally sitting up. The movement forced me to get to my feet, but I reached down to pull her up onto her feet. There was a split second where she brushed the dirt off her romper before she remembered why she was there. “Oh, God,” she said, turning toward the barn.
Matteo’s men were already pulling open the giant sliding doors.
Music spilled out, comically sexual given the tension in the air. It mingled with the sharp, acrid scent of gun smoke and the stress sweat seeping out of all our pores.
One of Matteo’s men rushed inside to flick off the music as another called out to ask if everyone was okay.