Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
"Oh, good, you believe me," she says, her shoulders sagging with relief.
"Any reason I shouldn't?"
"Nope, none at all." She beams at me, smiling so brightly the heavens part and angels actually fucking sing. My cock and heart throb, the blood in my veins resonating in time to that heavenly chorus. I've never been a religious man, but something about this wild woman has me ready to drop to my knees and praise Jesus.
Instead, I watch as she rolls to her knees. She tips her head back, her pretty eyes crawling up my body. I don't imagine the way they go glassy or the heat that steals across her round cheeks. Nor do I imagine the pink tip of her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
"You're naked."
"Not yet," I say, grinning ear to ear. "But I'm willing to change that for you, princess."
She scowls at me. "I mean you're half naked. It's winter. Wear clothes."
"Tore my shirt."
"How? Hulking out of it?"
"Fixing the fence."
"You didn't do a very good job. Your bull was in the woods."
"He doesn't like fences. Actually, he doesn't like much of anything but heifers and raising hell."
She's too busy staring at me to hear what I said. She likes what she sees, even if she doesn't want to admit it. It's a good thing because she'll be seeing a whole lot of it real soon if I have my way. I'm not much to look at. I'm an old bastard compared to her.
This way of living is rough. I spend most of my time with the sun beating down on me, yelling at ranch-hands. Ask any of them and they'll tell you my bite is a helluva lot worse than my bark, which is bad enough. Soft, I'm not. But I don't get the impression this girl needs soft. She's a wild one, full of fire and spirit.
I've read every word she's written. I know what makes her tick, what she dreams about, what she craves on that soul-deep level. Cassia Murphy wasn't made for a soft ass man. She was made for me. She might not know it yet, but she will soon enough.
Her breath trembles as she stares up at me, want stamped into every line of her gorgeous face.
Soon, pretty baby. Soon, I silently promise.
She seems to understand my promise and narrows her eyes in suspicion before sniffing loudly. I grin when that chin thrusts stubbornly upward, her nose shooting into the air.
Fuck me. Didn't think it was possible to be this hard over something so goddamn adorable, but here we are, my dick wedged so tightly against the zipper of my Wranglers, I pity the bastard.
"What's your name?" I ask, curious as hell to know what bullshit lie she'll tell me.
"Cass…iopeia."
"Cassiopeia?"
She nods miserably, curling in on herself.
Huh. She didn't lie, and she doesn't like her full name.
"That's a terrible name for a cattle thief."
"Blame my mom," she mutters, wincing as she climbs to her feet. She favors her left foot, keeping her right off the ground.
"Shit. You're hurt." I take two steps toward her, kneeling on the ground at her feet.
"No, I'm not."
"Let me see it."
"I'm fine."
"Let me see it," I growl.
She reluctantly places one hand on my shoulder, holding her foot out to me. Her black sneaker is soaked. I peel it and her sock—also black—off. Her delicate little foot is so cold it's damn near blue. I'm not surprised to see black polish on her toenails, but it makes me smile anyway. Of course she painted her nails black for whatever bullshit she's up to today. I prod gently at her foot and ankle, but don't feel anything broken. Her pained whimper breaks my heart when I gently rotate her ankle.
"It's not broken, but it looks like you twisted it pretty good."
"Stupid root in the stupid woods," she mutters under her breath.
"You fell?"
"No. A root tried to murder me, and a log decided to help."
I bite my lip, trying hard not to laugh at the offense in her voice. I tuck her sock into my back pocket and then grab her shoe before hauling myself back to my feet. She squeaks like a bird when I swing her up into my arms.
"What are you doing?" she cries. "Put me down!"
"You can't walk all the way back to the ranch with a twisted ankle."
"You're supposed to be calling the cops," she says, glaring at me.
"Cassiopeia…Can I call you Cassia?"
"Why?"
Because I won't call you a name you hate.
"Because Cassiopeia might have been beautiful, but she was a mortal queen. You're a fucking goddess, pretty baby. And you damn sure wouldn't have been placed in the heavens to be tortured for all of eternity," I growl.
"Oh," she whispers, her body softening in my arms. "I guess you can call me Cassia."
"Cassia," I say, fighting a smile when she softens further. "How do you expect the cops to arrest you way out here in the pasture?"