Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Rich-girl problems, you know?
Having grown up in foster care, I wouldn’t know shit about being rich, but I’m not going to judge her for not understanding what it’s like to grow up blue-collar. She’s been sheltered her whole fucking life. Fed with a golden spoon. Taught to view the world through a skewed lens of privilege and wealth.
I already overheard her quietly bitching to herself about my lack of skin products and choice in body wash while she was taking a shower, which was amusing, to say the least. If she weren’t trying to hate me so much, I’d be tempted to offer to eat her pussy to make up for the soap travesty—a skill at which I’m already an expert.
But I’m resigning myself to keeping things simple and not fantasizing about all the things I want to do to Blair Windsor’s body—taste, lick, suck, fuck, worship—before I’ve even been checked into the game.
I’m a benchwarmer for now, plain and simple.
I carry the plate of food upstairs and head to my bedroom. The last thing I want to do is startle her, so when I unlock the door, I don’t rush in. I step inside slowly, like the air itself might fracture if I move too fast.
She’s fast asleep and curled on her side in bed, and she’s dressed in nothing but my T-shirt. The shirt hangs loose on her small frame—one shoulder slipping slightly out of the neckline and the hem brushing the middle of her thighs. And her hair is still faintly damp from the shower I heard her take earlier, the ends curling lightly against my pillow.
Fuck me. Her in my bed. My shirt on her body. It’s a gorgeous sight, and I have to make a conscious effort not to fixate on it too much.
I close the door quietly behind me and set the tray down on the nightstand without taking my eyes off her. She looks smaller asleep. Less sharp. Less furious. There’s no outrage in her face now, just softness and beauty and relaxed breaths.
The mattress dips slightly under my weight as I sit on the edge of the bed.
Her brows twitch. Then—without waking—she shifts toward me.
Her knee brushes my hip. Her hand drifts across the mattress until her fingers graze my thigh. Her body follows the contact instinctively, curling closer as if she’s been searching for heat.
The bond pulls tight in my chest.
I should move. I should stand back up. I should leave the bedroom.
Instead, I slowly lie down beside her.
The second I settle into the mattress, she presses into me fully. Her forehead tucks beneath my chin. Her fingers curl into the fabric at my waist. Her leg slides between mine like it belongs there.
It’s unconscious and just as necessary for her as it is for me. That’s what undoes me.
She hates me when she’s awake. But in sleep, when she’s completely relaxed and not overthinking every fucking thing she’s ever been told, she’s drawn to me like a magnet.
It’s the confirmation I need to know that, despite the rocky path ahead, I’ve made the right choice. Our bond is important to me, but it’s important to her too—it’s our destined future.
My arm slides around her before I can stop it. My palm settles at the curve of her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing beneath the thin cotton.
She almost went to New York. Almost walked straight into Damien Snow’s evil hands. Straight into a cage dressed up as luxury.
The thoughts cut through me sharply.
The things he would’ve done to her. The cruel intentions that lay beneath the surface of his plans.
Fuck. I have to close my eyes to keep my rage and anger under control.
I know with certainty I would burn that whole fucking city to the ground before I let him touch her. She is my fated mate. I know I’m hers and she is mine, but I’ll never force her to choose me.
Never. The mere thought is abhorrent to me. I love her too much. When Blair gives in to our bond, it’ll be because she chooses it.
She stirs and her breathing changes, and between one heartbeat and the next, her lashes flutter open.
I brace for impact. For the shove. The slap. The fury.
But she doesn’t recoil. Her eyes are open, but they’re unfocused and soft around the edges. She’s here, but she also isn’t fully awake. This is a layer just below consciousness where the secrets live.
“I hate that I want to kiss you again,” she whispers, her voice still drowsy with sleep.
Her words hit me low and hard and threaten to awaken my primal need for her.
“Blair,” I murmur quietly.
But she’s already moving. She slides her hand up my chest, fingers tracing muscle like she’s confirming I’m real.
Then her mouth is on mine. Her lips are soft and searching, and for a second, I don’t respond. I let her decide.