Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
It’s that one time, a few years before, I saw the man that barely anyone sees, and after that, something inside of me caught fire.
It was at a wedding for the son of one of Jagger’s underbosses. How my scumbag, middle-management drug-pusher of a father got an invitation I have no idea, but he insisted on bringing me. And that’s where I’d seen him.
That’s when I’d felt wicked, heated, illicit feelings like that somewhere deep inside of me for the first time in my life.
He’d only appeared for a moment. After all, this was soon after he’d taken over the empire, and I’m sure there were more than a few people out there who wanted him dead to try and take it from him. But the man whose son was getting married had been one of Jagger’s uncle’s top men, so duty mandated he make an appearance.
And God, what an appearance.
Because for all of the scariness, and fearsome, brutal reputation surrounding him, there’s one thing I hadn’t known about my father’s boss before that night: Jagger Kovac was gorgeous.
It wasn’t in a Brad Pitt, handsome Hollywood kind of way, or one of those pretty boys cooing out wimpy love songs in music videos. No, Jagger Kovac was beautiful, and dark, and gorgeous in a very grown up way. Dark hair and even darker, haunting eyes. A jaw carved out of wood, and strong, eastern European features that highlighted his Serbian background. He’d worn his dark blue suit without a tie that night, the crisp white dress shirt open at the neck and the swirling ink of his dark black tattoos peeking through. Broad, muscled shoulders, like those of a football player or something, stretched the material of the suit. I’d watched, dry-mouthed and panting, at the way his biceps rippled and strained at the sleeves as he’d shaken hands.
I’d never before felt the wicked, teasing feeling I’d felt inside the instant I’d laid eyes on him back then, but I knew one thing.
I liked it.
I liked the way looking at this dangerous, brutal, ferociously sexy man made me feel — dirty, tingly, excited, and scared, all at the same time.
But that was years ago. And besides, even if he’d seen me back then — and I’m sure he didn’t — all he’d have seen would’ve been a gawky, silly little girl staring at him like a weirdo. So, as much as my dirty, inappropriate fantasies want to pretend that that was why I’m here, I know it isn’t. No, I’m here, in this gorgeous, glass castle of a house, because my scumbag father went on a bender, then went on a losing streak, and then decided to stake me on one last hand.
And lost.
I’m not here because Jagger Kovac wants me, like my teasing little fantasies want to pretend. I’m here because I’m his now, and all because of a bad draw in a game of cards. If my father weren’t the cruel, spiteful human being he is, Jagger might just have another stack of poker chips, or keys to a car, or maybe even an IOU in his possession right now.
Instead, he has me. I shiver, smoothing down my sundress again as I let my gaze drift over the beautiful, serene view of the ocean.
I feel his presence before I hear his footsteps, and as my heart jumps into my throat, I start to stand.
“No.”
The voice is like that of a Viking’s — strong, powerful, commanding, and menacing all at once. And yet, there’s a touch of something heated there too — a tinge of something fiercely protective.
I freeze at the command, breath coming fast, and my skin tingles as I hear him move towards me from behind.
“Sit.”
I nod quickly, smoothing my sundress down as I do as he says. The silly, girly fantasies and daydreams vanish, replaced by the cold fear and the brutal reality that I’m now in the possession of this fearsome man.
He moves right behind my chair, and I shiver at the feel of the heat from his body. I can smell the scent of his aftershave — something woodsy and manly. Something that smells expensive, and powerful, and clean. For a second, I have a funny thought that a man with this sort of reputation should smell like smoke and sulfur — like the devil I’ve been told he is. And yet instead, he smells, well…
Good.
Really, really good.
His hands find my bare shoulders, and I tremble at the contact. I’m not sure if I want to jump out of the chair and run or melt into him. The warmth of those hands seep into my tensed muscles, the strong, powerful fingers brushing across my skin and leaving tingly, teasing trails as they trace the straps of my sundress.
I very suddenly know I don’t want to run. I want to melt.