Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
I collapse on top of her, supporting most of my weight on my elbows, face buried in her neck. Her arms wrap around me, hauling me in like she’ll never let go.
We just lie there, breath tangled, hearts racing, every inch of us slick and raw and happy.
I finally roll to the side, bringing her with me. She tucks in close and melts against me. I drape an arm over her waist and bury my nose in her hair, breathing her in. Everything smells like sex and roses and us.
Time passes, but I couldn’t tell you how much. At some point, we both drift, half-asleep, wrapped up and sticky and grinning.
Her alarm finally blares, phone vibrating against the side table.
I groan, refusing to move. “No way. Not getting up. Ever.”
Daisy just laughs, low and lazy, and wiggles deeper into my arms. “I don’t have a choice. I have a bar to run.”
“Then I’ll come help you.” I kiss her shoulder, claiming my territory.
She’s quiet, but her hand finds mine and threads our fingers together.
And if the world ends, right here, I’ll die pretty fucking happy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAISY
I’m never late for work. But tonight, I’m running way behind. After Harrison ran to his place to shower and change clothes, I stayed at my place to get ready. What should’ve taken me no more than fifteen minutes took over an hour because I spent most of the time mooning over Harrison and the effect he has on me.
Of course, The Sin Bin is humming, every table packed wall-to-wall. And I’m kinda glad to be busy so my mind doesn’t overanalyze how I spent the afternoon. My hussy lady bits are still buzzing from the workout they got from Harrison.
“Are you okay?” Jerome, who’s been a bartender at The Sin Bin since I was in grade school, stops me when I whiz by the bar.
“Fine.” I give him a thin smile and read off the order from my pad.
“Let me know if you need something,” he tells me as he efficiently pours and mixes all the drinks. There’s no way in hell I’d ever admit why I’m really off my game. But I am. Every time I move, my body remembers what his hands did to me. I tell myself to get it together, but everything feels different. I keep my head down, hustling orders, until the hair on the back of my neck suddenly tingles.
I know that energy before I see it. I could pick Harrison Stafford’s presence out anywhere.
I turn to see him strolling in the door. Even in a sea of bodies, he stands out like a freaking exclamation point.
He strolls through the crowd in a black T-shirt and jeans that look spray-painted on. The shirt clings to the shape of him, every muscle outlined in soft cotton.
He doesn’t rush. He prowls. The crowd splits for him without him even having to try.
He catches me staring and his mouth curves. Not a smirk, not a leer, just that slow, wicked thing that says he knows exactly what he does to me. My knees threaten to give out. My hussy lady bits start buzzing even louder. Oh, man. I’m in over my head with him.
Harrison slides onto a bar stool, spreading those massive thighs, taking up more space than any normal human should.
“Decided you couldn’t get enough of me?” I tease as I walk up to him.
“You’re pretty fucking addictive.” He stares into my eyes, and I nearly melt on the spot.
“I wish I had time to stop and talk, but we’re slammed,” I tell him as I pass by on my way to give my order to Jerome.
Jerome catches my gaze, hands moving fast but steady, and I pass over the slip without breaking stride. The place is absolutely slammed.
Table twelve waving for refills, couple at the end asking for separate checks, someone at the bar yelling about the Astros game on the TV. Pure chaos, and honestly, I should be loving this—the rush, the order within the madness—but my head is spinning for entirely different reasons tonight.
Mostly because I can feel Harrison watching me. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Every time I turn, there he is. Sometimes perched at the bar, thighs spread and forearms braced on the counter, grinning like he knows a secret. Sometimes leaning back, surveying the room, scanning for me. I keep telling myself to ignore him, but my traitorous eyes check, again and again. Just in case.
I take a lap, dropping checks and stacking empty glasses in my hands, but the crowd’s getting rowdier by the minute. Someone’s yelling for shots. The printer behind the bar is spewing tickets like it’s possessed. I head over to grab the next round and… stop dead.
Harrison is behind the bar. Just rolling his sleeves up and sliding in next to Jerome, who doesn’t even blink. Stafford’s opening beers, lining up shot glasses, and taking orders like he’s done it a thousand times.