Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Two hours in Wildfire's only boutique, watching her eyes go wide as I told the saleswoman to give her one of everything. Panties. Bras. Jeans that actually fit her tiny waist. Sundresses because I want to flip up that hem and let my hands roam any fucking time I please.
Tampons and whatever the hell else she tried to whisper to the clerk until I growled that she didn't need to hide anything from me. The woman's eyebrows had nearly hit her hairline when I pulled out a roll of hundreds thick enough to choke a horse, but she was smart enough not to comment.
Nine bags sit in the back of my truck now. Nine bags of things that say she's not temporary. That she's mine to provide for.
The sundress she wore out of the store is the color of the mountain sky, barely covering the tops of those creamy thighs. She fought me as if her protests were going to stop me from giving her everything she needed to settle in next to me in this life.
“It's too much, Jack" and "I can’t pay you back"—until I growled in her ear that the money means nothing to me. What matters is marking her as mine with something other than the bruises my fingers leave on her hips when I'm buried inside her.
The plastic spoon in her ice cream cup scrapes against the bottom as she chases the last melting swirls of strawberry. Pink, like her nipples. Like her pussy when I've worked it raw with my mouth and fingers.
My jaw clenches as Bill Carson from the hardware store pauses mid-sweep to stare at her legs. His eyes are hungry, starved. I imagine my boot on his throat, pressing until cartilage pops. Maureen from the diner whispers something to her daughter behind the counter as we drift by, Delaney chirping on about how the ice caps pushed the granite down from Canada into Michigan. Their eyes track her movements, and I don’t like being on display.
"Your face is doing that thing again," she says, bumping her hip against my thigh.
"What thing?"
"That 'I'm calculating how many bodies I can bury before sundown' thing." She tilts her face up, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's hot, but maybe not for ice cream."
A laugh escapes me—rough, unpracticed. "Can't help it. Don't like people looking at what's mine."
Her cheeks pink at the word "mine," but she doesn't correct me. Doesn't pull away. Just squeezes my hand tighter. Progress.
We reach the truck, parked at the far end of the street where fewer eyes can linger. I open the passenger door, lifting her easily—Christ, she can't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet—by the waist to set her on the seat. Her legs dangle, too short to reach the ground from my truck's height. The sight punches me in the gut, makes my cock twitch. She looks like a little doll I could break with one hand.
"Thank you for this," she says, suddenly serious, her hand on my chest stopping me from closing the door. "For coming to town. For the clothes. For everything."
I cover her hand with mine, feel her pulse jumping beneath my fingers. My palm swallows her hand completely. I could circle her wrist with my thumb and pinky, could span her entire waist with my hands. "You're my thing," I tell her, the words coming out like gravel. "Everything else adjusts around that."
The smile she gives me then—Christ. Bright enough to blind a man. That smile is my fucking church. Nothing has made me more at peace than seeing her light up. Not even my mountain.
As I round the truck to the driver's side, I catch Bill Carson still watching, only he’s licking his lips now and barely hiding the lust in his eyes. A red curtain drops over my vision. My hands curl into fists, tendons popping. I imagine the wet crunch his skull would make under my boot, the satisfying crack of his jaw when it splits. I stare him down until he looks away, pale and sweating. Message fucking received.
Mine. Eighteen and tight and wet and all fucking mine.
My phone buzzes as I pull away from the curb. Beau's name flashes on the screen. I almost ignore it, but Delaney reaches over, answering before I can stop her.
"It's for you," she says, handing me the phone with a smile that makes my chest ache.
"Yeah?" I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, one hand on the wheel, the other finding her knee.
"She's still there?" Beau's voice crackles through the speaker, loud enough for Delaney to hear. I see her body stiffen slightly beside me.
"Yeah, she's still here," I murmur, giving her thigh a reassuring squeeze.
“That’s a big fucking promise to keep, man. Don’t think your man Hart meant you’d be moving her in.”