Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
“Do what? Suck your dick? You’re out of your damn mind!”
He blows a raspberry and has the gall to roll his eyes while reaching for me with the same hand he stroked his dick with a few hours back. “I mean… yes? Why the hell not?”
I can’t believe it.
He really is that stupid.
But that’s logic speaking. Because when he touches me, all the hairs on my forearms bristle, and I know I need to put a stop to this. Otherwise, I’ll be thinking about licking cum off his hand, and I’ve already wasted several hours of my life doing that.
I’m so nervous my stomach sticks to my spine, but he made his choice, and I did warn him.
“You will not own my secret!”
At least when I stab my knife forward, he has the instinct to leap back.
I don’t know why I’m glad, since I’ve come here to gut him. Maybe I’m the one with the death wish.
His eyes narrow as he pins his gaze to me, and his right hand dips to the knife sheath I’ve never seen him without, the one always wrapped in a faded old bandana. “Easy there, Blue Eyes. We both know that’s not what we want out of this,” he says softly.
I’m so confused I slash at him again, because I want his knife out. That, I understand. Compliments from a man? From fucking Roadkill? That leaves me confused, and when I’m unsure about something, I prefer to punch first, think later.
A curse falls from his lips, but when I jab forward again, and the blade tears a hole in his jacket, he finally understands that this is for real, and steel glints in his right hand.
“And they tell me I’m messed up,” he growls as we both circle one another in the lit-up space between our bikes.
How wrong is it that seeing him like this only makes me hornier? I was never into cute and soft guys. It’s what got me in trouble in the first place. And now I’m back at square one, about to either kill or die.
“You’ve wanted to be rid of me for years. Now’s your fucking chance,” I say to distract him right before I aim my knife for his hand.
Road snorts, changing direction and coming a bit too close for my liking. He’s moving like a cobra, and I know the muscles that make his body so unbelievably tempting might flex and propel him toward me at any moment. “I want your club gone. Not the same as wishing you were dead, Blue Eyes.”
He’s never called me that before. Not in a mocking way, not ever. This new focus on a physical trait of mine is fucking with my head and getting under my skin. Because… is he saying he likes my eyes? Or is he trying to distance my looks from who I am? Most of all, why do I care what he likes? Road is trash. A fucking lowlife from nowhere who lives solely to impress his buddies.
When I meet his gaze, he winks at me, and I fucking lose it.
I launch myself at him in a vicious attack and a roar of fury tears from deep in my chest. He pulls in his stomach, but I still manage to slash through his T-shirt and I swear I must have cut him at least a little too.
But anger is my downfall. Too focused on his knife, I don’t anticipate the punch to my wrist coming, and it’s so hard my knife falls from my hand. As I dip after it, Road kicks my legs from under me, and I collapse to the cracked asphalt. Pain spreads from my hip and shoulder. As I’m about to roll away to get my bearings and find the dagger, a heavy body smelling like my forthcoming doom lands on top, knocking the air out of my lungs.
His face looms over mine, dark eyes focused, teeth digging into his lower lip, and when I try to raise my head, Road slams it back down, and I shiver at the sudden nip on my neck.
His eyes widen.
“Keep the fuck still,” he says and shows me a knife he must have held against my throat. I catch a glimpse of blood before he presses it to my flesh again.
Did he just… save me from getting my own throat cut?
I stare at him, defeated. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I pat the asphalt, but my knife isn’t within reach.
I’m so confused at his closeness that it strikes me we’ve always fought in public. Either in town, or with some of our club brothers around. But here, we’re all alone in the darkness, and his heart thuds against my chest. I can smell him. Sweat, blood, cherry tobacco, but also soap and fresh laundry. His closeness shouldn’t give me such a thrill. I should see him for what he is—a threat.