Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Too many questions run through my brain. It’s like a never-ending stream of consciousness. A loop on repeat. It’s like a damn kid’s train on a track that keeps going and going.
I need it to stop, but the only way to do that is to grow a pair of balls, which, for obvious reasons, I don’t have.
I want to ask him.
But something stops me. Something makes the words die on my tongue.
“You’re thinking too hard.” He stops his movements and places his hand on my shoulders to turn me around.
Now facing him, he looks down at me. He’s up on his elbows with his brow furrowed.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”
When I say nothing, his jaw tightens. “I’m not ready to tell you,” he says, knowing what I want to ask.
“I thought I wasn’t ready to hear.”
He leans forward and places a kiss on my lips.
“I’m not sure you are, but right now, I’m not either.” His admission makes my heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. It’s flying fast, but I need to hold it back. I need to put it back in the cage.
“Why?”
“Because if I tell you, you’ll be upset and then you won’t let me touch you, and I really want to fucking touch you right now.”
“You are touching me.” I raise a brow.
His hand reaches under the blanket. “Not there, Sun.”
“Cyrus,” I say, but it comes out as a pant as he runs his fingers over my sensitive nipples.
“Sun?”
“Stop trying to distract me.”
“Cyrus.” I move my hands to stop him. His hand is now on my lower abdomen. “Please.”
“I will.” Lower. “Just let me have you a bit longer before you ruin it.” His hand travels lower.
“How long?” I pant.
“As long as it takes me to get my fill.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say. My breath hitches as he parts my legs and teases me.
“It’s the only answer you are going to get. Now shut up and let me in.”
I part my legs farther and do. His mouth finds mine, and he silences me.
When we come up for air sometime later, the questions still weigh heavy in my mind, but I know he’s right.
Talking about the kidnapping is an inevitable thing, but once we breach that topic, everything will change.
No matter what he says, he’s a criminal.
I have allowed the haze of my desire to cloud my judgment. Once I hear it, once we talk about it, I will have to stop pretending I’m living in a bubble where Cyrus and I can make love and nothing else matters.
Since I’m not ready for it to end yet, I table the conversation.
Denial is a wicked thing, but since he’s the devil himself, I might as well indulge for a little longer.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes Cyrus is not in bed, so I stand, grab his discarded shirt, and head out to look for him.
I wonder how much longer he’ll stay.
Does he have to head out?
My footsteps echo through the quiet of the house, and I find him in the kitchen.
He’s cooking.
It’s crazy to see him.
Most of the times he came to see me, prior to when he was hurt, he was always in a three-piece suit, but now he’s in sweats. They may be fancy sweats, but they’re sweats all the same.
He’s wearing no shirt, and his rock-hard and cut abdomen is on full display.
He must hear me because he lifts his gaze.
Even though he’s cooking, he still appears deep in thought.
I wonder if he ever really lets go.
Sometimes he does.
For me, he laughs, smiles, jokes.
I wonder if he does those things for anyone else?
When he does these things, it’s like seeing a whole different side of him. That’s what warmed my heart toward him. The secret side, the real side, he doesn’t share. Each laugh thawed the once icy feelings I had toward him.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I step into the kitchen.
He lifts a brow. “I mean other than cooking yourself breakfast.” I laugh because my question really was stupid.
“I’m making you breakfast,” he answers with a shrug.
My mouth drops open at what he just said. Did he really wake up early to make me food? It seems so out of place. Or does it? Maybe in the beginning, but recently, he’s been caring and thoughtful. Still, it feels strangely domestic and out of character . . .
“You are?” I question.
“Yes. I am. Now sit down.”
I stroll over to the table and take a seat. In my spot. Another thing that’s odd. How can I refer to this seat as mine? It’s crazy how I now consider this my spot. These thoughts shouldn’t be in my mind, but regardless, they are. I feel comfortable here—on this island, in this house—with him.