Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“I’ve always been a good shot.” Both with my dick and pistol.
She groaned behind my back, “Unsung American hero. The Pulitzer Prize is on its way.”
“I’ll hold my breath.”
“Now there’s an idea I could get behind.”
“I pity women,” I drawled, in the mood to throw her off-kilter. “You have to crouch like a constipated frog to keep from touching the toilet seat for fear you get an STI or pregnant.”
“Don’t pity us. We outlive you, have stronger immune systems, and scientifically, have way better memories. I’ll take doing a few squats over being a man any day.”
“You seem to know a lot about this. Don’t tell me you opened a book,” I concentrated on the door, and not on the reflection of her in the mirror.
“God forbid. It was on the back of a tampon box.”
I allowed myself a small grin, listening as she flushed the toilet. The sound shook the walls. She washed her hands, squirting a generous amount of soap.
“I do apologize,” she said.
Here we go.
“What did you do now?” I demanded. If she’d peed on my black Italian wingtips, I was going to punch a hole through this goddamn wall.
“Nothing…yet.” She leaned forward in front of the mirror, applying lip gloss and smacking her lips. “But I’m about to.”
She pocketed the lipstick, turned around, then leaned close to my ear. Being a true dom, I could read her body language, anticipating what she was about to do before she did it. Her mouth fell in an O-shape.
She was about to scream.
I acted quickly, pushing her against the sink, covering her entire body with mine. My palm squeezed flat against her mouth, sealing all of it.
“Are you crazy?” I hissed in her face with a snarl. “Do you think this is funny?”
She attempted a smart-ass answer, from the look in her eyes. Her words were muffled by my hand.
“That was a rhetorical question. You’re as crazy as a soup sandwich. You’ve gone a step too far now, Brat.”
In response, she sank her teeth into my palm, then started grinding her jaws like a Chihuahua. My skin broke, creating a slow, scarlet trail of blood that ran down her chin and along her pretty little throat. The little shit bit me.
And that turned me on. Because when I got bitten…my instinct was to bite back even harder.
I pressed my hand more forcefully against her mouth, feeling aroused and annoyed and fuck, I should have chosen the Mayor Ferns post. My blood was the exact shade as her hair. Another turn-on.
“Stop this. I already told you, I won’t touch you in an inappropriate way. You have my word. Why do you think I’d try anything with you? It’s like hetero assholes naturally assuming gay people will come on to them.”
She said something animatedly, but again, it was muffled by my palm. Brat reached at my face, trying to claw my eyes out. She wanted an altercation, and I wasn’t sure why.
She was feral, unruly, and a goddamn pain. She was also the first client to make me bleed, which didn’t disturb me as much as it should have.
“You aren’t going to stop, are you?” I asked.
She shook her head wildly, looking at me with a crazy twinkle in her eye. I recognized that abandon. It appeared whenever I hooked up with a woman who liked to be roughed up. But it couldn’t be. Brat wasn’t that kind of person. She was used to Hollywood pretty boys who probably fucked like they were starring in French art films. Making loooooooove.
My blood had disappeared into her cleavage. We both watched as it trickled between the valley of her breasts. My cock throbbed, thick and pulsating against my jeans.
“Don’t hold back.” She hooked her fingers inside my front pockets, tugging me closer. “Grind against me.”
“What do you want?” I shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to get out of this bathroom without cooperation. It sounded more like a plea than a question.
She began moving her lips. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away to let her speak.
“My phone back. Permanently, Skipper the Creeper.”
She licked her lips, looking up at me like a little vampire. Forbidden and fey. I wondered about the men she’d been with—or had they been pretty boys, unable to deliver what she needed? What was Hallie Thorne like with each of them? How many? A good amount, no doubt. Although interestingly enough, when I sifted through her text messages and call logs, I couldn’t find any evidence of hookups. She had a Tinder account on her phone, but obviously hadn’t been using it since meeting me—and there had been no new notifications. Maybe she was going through a self-inflicted dry spell.
A greasy beef-head like Wes Morgan could trigger celibacy, even in nymphomaniacs.
“And you think acting like a child is going to achieve your goal?” I snarled. We were crowded together in the tiny space, my body flush with hers. Someone shook the lavatory door from the outside, groaning in protest when they realized it was locked.