Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I’m obsessed with her in a way that borders on unhealthy. Her big green eyes and sweet smile haunt my dreams. I find excuses to work late, just to keep her here late. Christmas is in two days, and we’re in the office. She should be at home right now, enjoying some time off. But no. I have her here with me.
Most weekends, when my sister thinks I’m working, I’m in the goddamn parking lot outside her place, just hoping she pops her head out. And as soon as she does, I’ve got my fucking cock in my hand, jerking it like a creep.
Okay, so maybe my obsession passed borders on unhealthy a few stops back. I can’t fucking help it, though. Everything about her makes my goddamn heart race. My cock is permanently hard. I ache for her in ways I can't even begin to explain.
She’s everything that’s been missing from my life. With her here, the office feels a helluva lot more like home than my own damn house. She feels like home. She’s shy, sweet, and has these curves that demand I put my hands all over them and claim them as my territory. I’ve never wanted to sink into anything and get lost the way I want to sink into her.
While she thinks I’m in here working, I’m jerking off like a horny teenager who just discovered porn. Except…the only thing I'm watching is the cameras pointed at her desk.
If she knew, she’d kick my ass.
I want to kick my own ass.
It’s illegal. It’s inappropriate.
And neither of those things is enough to stop me.
Every damn day, I swear I’ll stop, but then I see her, I smell her freesia shampoo, and eighteen new fantasizes swirl through my head. I’ve thought about fucking her every which way there is to fuck someone. Bent over her desk? Check. On top of it? Check. On my lap with her hair wrapped around my fist? Check. On the couch in my office? Check. Spread out on the rug in front of said couch? Also check. With her hands bound so she can’t move while I do every filthy thing I can think up? Check, check, and check.
I’m an asshole. My only saving grace is the fact that I’m an asshole in love. Because this isn’t just about fucking. God no. I want her—every fucking piece of her. I want my ring on her finger more than I want air. And I want her pregnant with my kid so goddamn badly I can taste it.
But until ten minutes ago, I wasn’t sure I stood a chance. She’s so quiet, so reserved. She holds her cards close to her chest, refusing to share much of anything. I thought it was because she simply tolerated me. But I saw…a flicker when she handed over that list. I’m not even sure how to describe it, but there was something in her eyes when she looked at me, like she wanted me to see her, like she wrote this list specifically with me in mind.
Shit. Maybe I only saw what I wanted to see. I don’t fucking know. But if she wants love and a baby, the only man giving them to her will be me. Hell will freeze over before I allow anyone else to touch her, kiss her, make love to her. She’s meant to be mine.
And she just detonated a bomb all over my carefully laid plans.
I’ve been slowly trying to get her to open up to me and let me in. The Christmas list was my way of learning more about what she likes and what she wants so I can give her those things. I intended to slowly draw her out, to spoil her. Little by little, she was going to fall for me, so slowly she didn’t even realize she was doing it. By the time she knew it was happening, it’d be too late for her to stop it. I’d already be under her skin, and she’d be mine.
But if she’s aching for love—if she’s thinking about having a baby—I don’t have time to move slow. I can’t risk some other motherfucker swooping in and trying to take what belongs to me.
If she wants a baby for Christmas, it’ll be my kid growing in her belly.
And I have two days to make it happen.
“Hey, Lachlan?”
I spin on my heel to see her standing in the doorway to my office, her hands locked together in front of her. She avoids looking directly at me, instead staring at a spot beside my head.
“What’s wrong?” I growl, far more harshly than I intended.
She visibly flinches, making my fucking stomach twist itself into knots. “I don’t feel well,” she whispers. “I think I need to leave early.”
Fuck.
I’m across the office to her in two seconds, shoving her list into my pocket on the way. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I stop in front of her, so close I feel her trembling against me. My arms ache to feel her in them, but I resist the urge to drag her up against my chest. Instead, I reach out, gently placing my hand against her forehead to check for fever. “You don’t have a fever.”