Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
It’s true that my family is quite wealthy. Most people who race come from monied backgrounds because it’s an expensive sport. But once I went professional, my parents didn’t pay for anything. I earned my own money and handled everything myself.
My favorite things about this flat are the tall windows—the natural light in the morning is beautiful. I love that the building is old and has such a rich history. The hardwood floors creak just enough to know they hold stories. I like the bookshelves built into the far wall waiting for me to unpack my boxes of treasured novels still in temporary storage.
I drop my bag onto the arm of the couch and walk to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle out of habit more than anything. The cupboards are stocked with the essentials, and I start a mental list of other items I need to grab at the grocery store.
Of course, thinking of that makes me think of Ronan and our mad dash through the aisles to get the last bottle of Drivex. My lips curve remembering the feral competition in his eyes that held a tinge of passion when our fingers first touched.
Knock. Knock.
I freeze, heart leaping into my throat. I don’t know anyone here and haven’t met any neighbors. I most definitely don’t feel like introductions or entertaining if it’s a welcoming party. I move to the door cautiously, peering through the peephole.
I blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing a mirage.
Ronan.
Before I can fully register who is on my porch or even consider the implications, I unlock the door and pull it open. We stare at each other, still as statues.
He doesn’t say a word. I don’t know what to say.
But words don’t matter because Ronan steps inside, grabs my face with both hands, and slams his mouth onto mine.
He doesn’t give me time to think and maybe that’s part of his plan.
One second, I’m opening the door—heart pounding, still reeling from the tension he left behind—and the next, his hands are in my hair, his mouth in complete control of mine, and my back is hitting the wall inside my flat.
It’s not sweet. It’s not tentative.
It’s pure, driven need.
I gasp into his mouth, caught between the chilled air breezing through the open door and the heat of his body pressed against mine. My fingers fist in the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer, perhaps afraid he’ll let common sense prevail again.
I kiss him with all I have… like I want to reap something from him.
Ronan groans, deep in his throat, and lifts me like I weigh nothing. He kicks the door shut and I wrap my legs around his waist, fueled by need and instinct. I’m carried through my flat, his mouth still on mine, hands gripping my thighs so hard I’ll probably have marks tomorrow. I’m okay with that.
He drops me onto my bed, and I barely register the room tilting before his mouth is on my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone. He yanks my sweater over my head and tosses it to the floor without looking. His hands are already under my tank, skimming up my ribs, brushing under my bra. I arch into the touch, greedy for more.
“Why do you have to wear so many layers?” he mutters.
“You’ve got to work for it,” I gasp as a thumb grazes my nipple. “The sweeter the reward.”
He lifts his head, eyes locked on mine. I stare back with challenge as he studies me. His expression is inscrutable, but I’m worried there’s hesitation on his part. I need to ensure he doesn’t get cold feet.
“Do that thing to my nipple again,” I demand, and just like that, the heat in his eyes goes nuclear.
“Maybe later,” he taunts as his mouth reclaims mine. He unhooks my bra with one hand and slides it off with a deliberate slowness that sends heat flooding through me. I tug at his shirt, impatient, but he bats my hands away and strips it off himself.
Jesus.
I’ve seen Ronan dressed in high fashion and I’ve seen him in fireproof layers, soaked in sweat. But half-naked Ronan, all lean strength and tension, muscles carved to perfection—he’s a work of art.
I run my hands down his chest, grazing every ridge of him. I brush past his hipbone, thrilling at his stutter of breath.
“You’re staring,” he says, voice low.
“Can you blame me?”
He smirks, but it fades when I start working on his belt. My fingers tremble, not from nerves but because I want him too badly.
He curses under his breath and brushes my hands aside. “Let me.”
He undoes his jeans and then turns his attention to me—his hands sliding down my hips to the waistband of my pants. He doesn’t ask permission because he doesn’t need to. I lift my hips, and he pulls them down in one smooth motion, taking my underwear along the way.