Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I love his train of thought.
His denial heated my blood until I was lava and fire. “And what do I deserve?”
His breath caught as he bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck, that sounded sexy.”
I arched upward as much as I could—submitting myself to a kiss—or whatever else he wanted to give me. The sheets tantalized my flesh. The warm air licked around my nipples. Everything was an aphrodisiac.
Suddenly, he growled and rolled away.
What the—
Climbing off the bed, his legs planted wide on the floor. My eyes trailed to his heavy cock as he scooped a pair of discarded black boxer briefs from the end of the bed and stepped into them. His muscles flexed and bowed, looking part fantasy, part illusion. Nobody should be that divine. Nobody could be that divine and be mine.
He looked like a demi-god ready to carry me off into the heavens only to corrupt me with decadent sin.
“You can’t stand there looking like that and expect me to behave,” I whispered, rubbing my thighs together.
Leaning down, he captured my wrist and pulled me toward the edge of the bed. Lifting me from the mattress, he plopped me onto my feet, then wrapped me in the tightest embrace. “Never stop being you, Buttercup. Never stop being bold or bossy or brave.”
The swift change from erotic to endearing left me stranded and swimming to catch up. My fingers latched on to his narrow hips, stroking the cotton of his underwear. “I’m bossy?”
Unable to help myself, I nipped at his pectoral, tracing the pink scar and tiny puncture holes left over from my stitches.
His back tightened but his chuckle echoed like a chorus inside my ears. “Very.” Holding me at arm’s length, he smiled. “But I like bossy women.”
Coldness entered my lava-blood, delivering once again the fear that he wasn’t as well as he made out. Tilting my head, I peered at him, hoping to read his secrets.
Why was he making such an effort to distract me?
Distract me from what?
“Wrong, Mr. Killian. You only prefer one bossy woman.”
Capturing my cheeks, he placed his lips against mine. “Only one. Only you.” His tongue slipped past my lips, tasting me, encouraging me to let go of what’d happened and allow myself to be swept away in this new cascade of togetherness.
Obeying his command, I did my best to let go. I did my best to live in the moment where his kiss was as fleeting as a comet and as precious as a falling star.
The kiss stopped as sweetly as it’d begun. Arthur brushed a fiery strand from my cheek. “Let’s go rectify the problem of my starvation. Savory first, then dessert.” Pinching my butt, he smiled. “And if you hadn’t guessed by now—you’re the dessert.”
Chapter Twelve
Kill
Genius was a gift. But obsession was a curse.
Problem was I’d never been able to have one without the other.
When I wanted something—I’d go after it. I’d chase it until I’d either solved it, or it no longer interested me. That sort of single-minded determination was fine—to some degree. But in some cases, it was the worst kind of punishment because I was never satisfied. Never content. Always driven for more. —Kill, age seventeen
I left Cleo in the bathroom as I threw on a T-shirt before descending the stairs.
The steps remained where they should and my eyes judged distances like normal. The reprieve after last night’s agony made me weak at the knees with gratefulness.
It wasn’t intentional to keep the seriousness of my condition from Cleo.
Who are you fucking kidding?
Okay, I was intentionally downplaying the agony in my head and the terrifying sludge where my intelligence used to be. But I couldn’t handle hurting her even more with a weakness I couldn’t control.
She didn’t need to fret. And I had the power to stop her worrying by simply withholding tiny details.
It was a worthwhile trade.
I stepped into the foyer with strong convictions that I’d done the right thing keeping her in the dark. My body wasn’t nearly as tense as it was yesterday, my eyes not nearly as bruised.
That was until I saw the letter.
Then I tensed up like a fucking fist.
The mail had been delivered.
Hardly a life-changing event, if it wasn’t for the very common and familiar envelope sitting on top of my utility bills.
Moving calmly, I stole the mail as if it was any other day.
My hand stayed steady as I took the correspondence into my office and sliced the paper with a letter opener.
The stationery brought back so many memories. Memories of scribbling equations after equations, committing to memory Wallstreet’s famous trading sequence. Memories of jotting down names of newspaper editors, friendly police officers, and most importantly eager politicians—all so I would know who to contact when I found freedom.
Looking over my shoulder—never able to shake off the feeling of being watched—I unfolded the note from Florida State.