Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
She’s too pretty, too aroused, too needy. And I just can’t resist her. “Can you come like this?” I ask, and I’m the desperate one now. I need her orgasm more than anything. “Or do you want fingers?”
“Yes,” she says on a staggered breath.
“Which one?” I demand since I may be desperate, but I fucking love to play.
She grinds hard against me. “Fingers. Now.”
“Say please.”
“Fuck you. Give me your fingers,” she says.
“Since you asked so nicely.” I let go of her breast, unzip her shorts, and thrust my fingers inside her panties.
She’s slick and hot, and her needy clit is so damn eager for attention. The second I touch her, she’s shuddering. Then gasping, arching, and falling apart with a long, gorgeous cry that I cover with my mouth. You never know who might hear.
As I kiss her tenderly through her release, a healthy dose of pride floods me from the instant O, just add fingers.
When I let go of her lips, she’s breathing hard, her shoulders heaving. And I catch the far-off sound of an engine.
Or maybe not so far off after all. I jerk my gaze behind us.
Holy shit.
Coming our way on this winding, supposedly quiet road is a black town car. There’s another one behind it. Then an SUV. Just what I need—a goddamn caravan.
I don’t think they belong to photographers. But I can’t know for sure. Besides, it could be anyone. Someone she knows. A customer.
Think fast.
“Ripley, get down on your knees.”
She blinks, but she’s obedient as she slides off me to the floor of the car, her hands reaching for my jeans.
I stifle a laugh as I cover her wrists, stopping her unzip as I lean my head back against the headrest, then close my eyes. “Quiet,” I hiss out.
“Are you serious?”
“Shh,” I say as the engines rumble louder.
“You’re really shushing me after you’ve asked for a BJ? My mouth would be full anyway.”
I laugh harder. I’m not sure I can survive this woman. “Ripley, there’s a car coming.”
“And you’re pretending you’re asleep?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “So no one thinks twice of me being parked and stops to try to help. No one can see you. I’m protecting you.”
A laugh bursts from her. “This better be a bodyguard first.”
“Trust me. It is.”
As the head of the convoy passes, I peek open an eye. I had a feeling. The woman in the passenger seat sports shaggy brown hair and big glasses—Vega, the director. The car whooshes by. The next car includes someone else I know—Wanda, our expert security hire.
A new, damning thought touches down in my head. What would she think if she knew what I’d done?
As the last vehicle passes, I catch a glimpse of a woman who looks just like the woman on the floor.
When they’re gone, I finally turn my gaze back to her mirror. Ripley’s cheeks are still pinkened, her lips still bruised, her hair a gorgeous, wild mess.
I’m keenly aware of just how far I’ve crossed the line, and just how close I came to getting caught because my steady pulse is beating out of control.
Guess I’m not so unflappable after all.
22
NO BIG DEAL
BANKS
When the coast is officially clear a few seconds later, I offer Ripley a hand. She doesn’t take it. Just climbs back up to the passenger seat as I move over to the driver’s side.
“I’m sorry,” I say, guilt twisting my gut as she settles in. But do I tell her I feel guilty? Do I tell her I shouldn’t have done that?
“It’s fine. You just caught me off-guard. I thought you wanted me to blow you,” she says.
Oh, right. She thinks I feel bad about the blow job misunderstanding when that’s the least of my worries. But it lightens the mood for a second. “And that bothered you?” I ask her.
She rolls her eyes. “I got down on my knees. Obviously, it didn’t bother me until I thought you were trying to shut me up with your dick.”
She’s so compliant and sassy at the same time. It’s too heady. Too tantalizing. I’ve got to get my act together. I resist playing verbal volleyball with her this time, instead saying, “That was the crew. Everyone’s in town now.”
She sits ramrod straight. “Haven,” she says, as if she’s seen a ghost.
“She was in one of the cars.”
Ripley yanks the seat belt across her chest, nodding to the road, like we need to step on it. “I thought she was going to the inn. But I should be there when she arrives.”
“Why? I mean, I know we were heading there anyway, but…”
“Because I want to see her,” she says, like it’s obvious. Still, she adds, “She’s probably coming to see me and Grandma before she checks into her hotel.”
Oh. Right. “Of course,” I say, then turn the keys in the ignition.
Why was I ever arguing with her over seeing her sister? Maybe because her sister’s arrival is the reminder that I need to stay focused on why I was hired. Because paparazzi are in town. More have probably descended already. No doubt other photogs have figured out that the shot of the pretty blond dismounting a bicycle from two days ago was the twin, even though Page Six didn’t care. That means more are likely swarming the town. All with the same goal—to catch the big fish: a photo of Chris Carlisle and Haven. Which is why I’m here—to personally protect the woman who looks just like the rising star.