Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Oh God. Please don’t.”
I press the pads of those fingers against the warm, tight hole and lean over her again. “Do you know I could finish you right here, right now, dump your body, your shitty bag and coat. It’d be like you never existed at all.” I rub her asshole. “Of course, I’d take what I wanted first. What is owed to me, considering your attempt at blackmail and extortion.”
“I’m sorry. I just…”
“And you know what? No one would even give a shit. No one would miss you, would they, Blue?”
“I just…” She turns her head to the side, attempts to wipe her eyes and nose on her shoulder.
“No wait,” I continue, straightening, releasing her wrists and gripping the far edge of the desk, my hands on either side of her face. Because she lost the right to a defense the day she decided to send that first email.
She looks at my hands, big and strong, oh the damage they can do. I wait for her to shift her gaze up to me before I finish my sentence.
“Wait. Someone would miss you,” I say.
Her expression changes wholly then, all the fire and fury, gone. Tears drop from her blue eyes. She’s prettier for it. It’s a weird thought I know. A sick one maybe. But I know the stock I come from.
“I’ll repeat myself once more, Blue,” I say, drawing back to give her space to do as I command. “Get on your knees.”
I should question her and be done with her. Finish her. That’s all. But there is that command and something inside me twists and stretches and yawns to life. Something dark and ruthless and feral as a starved beast in the wild.
She straightens, wiping her eyes and nose with the inside of her wrist. And she drops to her knees. Because I have her.
5
Blue
“That’s better.”
His voice is a dark vibration that makes me shiver.
He knows. He knows about Wren. How did I ever think I could get away with this? With a man like him?
“Where do your hands go?” he asks in that low, deceptively controlled tone.
I don’t realize I’ve got my left hand over my right to staunch the bleeding. The cut is deeper than I thought. The one on his neck has already closed. I did more damage to myself than him with my homemade weapon.
“Blue,” he draws out my name, the sound of it menacing on his tongue. This is a powerful man. A dangerous one. What the fuck was I thinking? The others, there were two, they were different, photos of them cheating on their wives. They paid and it was done. This is something else entirely.
I raise my hands and set them at the back of my head. Blood trails down the inside of my arm. I follow his gaze down and see how the bodysuit with its snaps undone, which is already too small and tight, leaves me wholly exposed below my waist. I bring my thighs together.
He slowly drags his gaze to mine. There’s a small, upward curve to his lips that makes something in my stomach flutter. He had his hands on me. The most intimate parts of my body.
He crouches down so we’re almost at eye level.
“Please don’t hurt her. She had nothing to do with this. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She?”
I blink. Was he guessing? Was it a stupid guess and I just gave it away?
His eyes search my face and I take in their silvery-grey shade, the coldness of them. I find I can’t look at them for too long and shift my gaze to study his face, the five o’clock shadow along his jaw, the sharp line of it, the hardness of his mouth. I wonder how he’d look smiling. Handsome, I think. Not kind though. There is nothing kind about this man.
When he reaches out a hand to brush the hair back from my face, I flinch with the contact of skin. He pauses, holds up a finger, raises his eyebrows. His silent instruction for me to be still. His thumb brushes my jaw before his fingers curl around it and gently, which is absurd that I’d think anything this man does to me is gentle, he tilts my face a little so he can get a better look. I’m sure my makeup has worn off. The ugly, still-angry pink scar that spans my cheek is visible. The Frankenstein-like marks my clumsy stitching left.
His eyes narrow. I tug free of his grasp and give a shake of my head, so my hair falls across my left cheek to hide it at least a little.
He meets my gaze, and I find myself staring into those wolfish eyes again. I can’t read him. But he’s trying to read me. He’s curious about the scar or the stitching, probably. Anyone who sees it stares. That’s why I wear such heavy makeup. Well, that and so my dad doesn’t find me. He has friends on the street keeping an eye out for a woman with a hideous scar across her face. Think Bride of Frankenstein.