Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
It took every ounce of the training that had been drilled into her to hold onto in any circumstance to keep moving in the same direction as opposed to spinning around and heading back there to take them all out. Slowing her breathing, she stopped at a small streetside café. She stood in line, continuing to listen.
“This floor.” The deepest of the voices she’d heard thus far spoke up. “Fifth door on the right.” A pause. “Don’t fuck this up or I will kill you myself. This is an easy in and out.”
Jasmine gestured to a strawberry Danish and set a bottle of cold water on the counter. She slid a ten over the counter and picked up her items before heading to an open table outside.
As she winked at a little girl with blonde pigtails and pink ribbons, she sat and picked at the Danish. The she uncapped the water for a swig. She heard the breach of the apartment door and seconds after that…
The explosion.
Chapter Eleven
Life always offers you a second chance—
it’s called tomorrow.
Lance winced at the pain moving through him as he shuffled over the smooth floor to the window. Outside the sky was resplendent in purples, oranges and muted golds. He rubbed his chest and squinted out of his one good eye.
He didn’t recognize the apartment he was in, and there was nothing to give the slightest hint of who lived here. Perhaps the man who’d been at the wheel?
But then, he thought he’d imagined seeing him with Jasmine. A snarl escaped and he gazed around once more. Where is that woman of mine?
His stomach growled and he pivoted away from the window. Lance slowly made his way to the small, neat kitchen. He opened the fridge and frowned. Some tan rectangular containers that were sealed with tin lids and had no writing on the outside to indicate what they may hold.
One in hand, he shut the door to the fridge and nearly dropped the container. Jasmine stood on the other side.
“What the fuck, woman! I could have shot you.” His gun was in the back of his waistband and not handy, but still.
The left side of her face quirked up. “Funny.” She jutted her chin at the container he held. “Get your food, we need to talk.”
While he longed to hold her and kiss her, he used his rapidly waning energy to make it to the microwave and pull the top off the container. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes with broccoli. His mouth watered. Holding onto the counter while it reheated, he watched her in his periphery as she got drinks for each of them.
Were he not half dead and as weak as a newborn kitten, he may have felt it was almost domestic, them sharing the kitchen and working together. His woman wore torn jeans, and through one of the holes on her upper thigh he could make out a tattoo. Eyes narrowing, he licked his lips and moved toward her as she filled her cup with ice. She loved ice. He didn’t want very much in his glass but she loved it.
At her side, he trailed his hand down along her hip until he got to the hole and tucked his finger in. “Did you get a tattoo while I was lying here?”
Her smile had his heart skipping a few beats. “I could have had that this whole time.”
He clucked his tongue at her. “Not a chance, baby. I’ve licked every fucking inch of your curves and that,” he tugged on the material and frowned, “that raven wasn’t there.”
She handed him his glass and tapped hers to it. “Maybe, you’re just not that observant.”
Lance snorted. “Baby, I may miss some things here and there, but not when it comes to you and this body I’ve claimed as my own. Trust me when I tell you, I’ve never been so fucking observant as I am with you.”
He leaned closer and flicked his tongue along her lower lip, catching the water droplet teasing him. Jasmine backed up enough to pull their mouths apart.
“Foolish man, eat your food. You’re not ready for all this.”
He yanked her close, doing his damnedest not to wince over the pain radiating through him at the movement. “Twenty-four-seven, baby. I’m always ready for you.”
Her smile, soft and slightly condescending, had him rethinking his statement. She patted him on the cheek. “Let’s see how you’re doing after you eat some food.” She plucked his glass from his hand and carried it to the table. Before he could get back to the microwave she was there, dragging his food from it and taking that to the table as well.
He wanted to snap at her that he wasn’t an invalid but damn it all, he kinda was. And despite his words, no way in hell he was ready for tangling in the sheets with this woman. Face-planting on the bed? Sure. But nothing more adventurous than that. Which fucking sucked.