Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Hopefully he can see how my brain does—with a plan to destroy.
Then his hand shifts at my back in just a small movement, with light pressure guiding my next step. His touch feels invasive, controlling. Like he knows where we’re going even when I don’t. My nipples harden, and I hate how much I respond to him.
My breath escapes in this ridiculous, involuntary little sigh that I want to shove back into my lungs and set on fire. “I’m totally innocent here.”
“Ha. Baby, you left innocent behind several firewalls ago.” His eyes flick to mine. He sees me. Of course he does. But he doesn’t smirk, doesn’t comment, and just watches me like he’s logging my every move, my every weakness. Like this is all part of some mental file he’s building in case he has to put me down later.
It probably is.
Justice Beathach knows I’m the enemy. I know it, too. I’ve tried to kill people he’s sworn to protect, and I’ve breached systems he was ordered to keep locked. If we weren’t wearing formal wear, we’d be armed and bloody by now.
“You really think I’m that dangerous?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I want to hear him say it.
“I know you are.” He says it like a fact. No heat, no praise. Just truth.
The heat that pulses low in my body is unwelcome and completely infuriating. I feel my knees start to betray me again, so I pivot to cover it. Clean step. Controlled. Almost elegant. I’m proud of it until his hand adjusts with me, just enough to keep me from actually falling. Like he anticipated the slip before I did.
I hate how easily he can hold me like this. I hate how warm he is. I hate the smell of his cologne. Expensive, complex, a little sharp. Like black pepper and sin. “There’s a running theme in my head about you. It’s called hate.” I might as well give him the truth.
“Really?” He slides one hard thigh between my thighs and presses up.
Electricity arcs between my legs and through my body. I gasp, my clit pulsing. What is he doing? “Stop.”
“No.” His hand flattens across the small of my back, and he pulls me toward him, pulsing up with his leg. His very strong, muscled, unrelenting thigh.
Oh, God. Tremors begin to shake inside me. “Justice.”
He forces me to ride it, turning with the music, holding me close. Does anybody know what he’s doing to me? I clutch his lapels tight, digging my nails in. Liquid pools in my panties. My teeth grit. “You are such—”
“Watch it, princess.” His hand slides down to cup my ass and then squeezes, just as his thigh muscle tightens.
My body jerks and my nipples sharpen, scraping against the soft fabric of the dress. Even that small sensation is overwhelming.
My head drops toward him. Live wires uncoil inside me, and erotic sparks zing up from my clit. I blink several times. My breath starts to pant. Panic takes me along with the need to let go. “Justice,” I breathe again, needing him to stop. Now.
“Say please.”
I swallow. People are all around us. His gaze drops to my hardened nipples. “Last chance.”
“Please.” I can’t orgasm in front of everyone. How is this happening?
His leg slides back and he twirls us. “Good girl.”
I want to hit him. Kind of. I also want to finish what he just started. That’s not like me. Not at all.
He studies me. “You look lovely tonight, Ella.”
It sounds like he means the compliment. “Are you always this nice to your enemies?” I keep my tone dry, but I hear the edge in it. The nerves. The pull.
“I’m not nice,” he says. “This is containment.”
“Charming.” I stiffen.
His hand spans my entire lower back. “You should keep talking,” he adds.
This throws me, and I don’t want to challenge him again right now. Not with people all around us and my vagina weeping for him. This confuses my brain. My body seems to have a plan of its own. “Why should I talk?” I whisper.
He’s quiet for a beat too long. “Your voice helps me think.”
It’s a lie. Or it’s not. I can’t tell. I can’t read him. For someone like me, that’s terrifying. I narrow my eyes. “I know your brother has a form of lexical-gustatory synesthesia and can taste people’s words. Do you have it also?” The condition is real but enhanced with Thorn and makes him have a taste in his mouth any time somebody speaks. When Alana talks, he tastes honey.
Thorn apparently loves honey.
Justice stiffens and then relaxes. Crap. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. “How the hell do you know about Thorn?”
Heat tinges my face. “Alana told me. Thorn knows I know.” Anything that will keep Justice from snapping my neck right now is a good sentence to say. “I’ll never tell anybody. I promised her.” I will never break a promise to Rosalie or Alana. Regardless of the consequences. “Do you have it, too?”