Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“Stop,” I say, walking over and reaching for the bottle.
He snatches it away, his eyes pure rage as they land on me. “Do not fuckin’ touch me, Bonnie.”
The way he says my name has shivers running down my spine.
“Then put it down,” I say, carefully, “and I won’t.”
“Why are you here?”
He doesn’t put the bottle down.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” I tell him, honestly.
Hesitant, I take another small step toward him, and that only has him jerking back, like my very presence is too much for him.
“Western,” I say, carefully.
“Don’t call me that,” he bellows, louder than I’ve ever heard him, and he launches the bottle across the room.
It smashes into a thousand tiny pieces.
Jerking, I take a step backward, my heart racing as I stare in shock and horror at the man whose rage is out of this world. He’s panting, fists clenched, and his face is so tight it’s actually scary. For a second, just a second, I am afraid of him.
“Do you fuckin’ see?” He laughs, but it’s bitter and cold. “You act like you’re not afraid of me, but you are.”
He’s right.
In this moment, I am.
I don’t know what to say, because I can’t tell him I’m fine when clearly, I’m not. My palms are sweating and my hands are trembling just a little. Still, I make a choice in this moment, a choice that will either bite me or it’ll push me one step closer to him. I take a step forward. Then another. I move, even though my knees wobble and my body breaks out into tiny shivers.
I just keep moving.
Stopping in front of him, I tip my head back and look up at the man who is so torn apart inside, it radiates from his soul, stabbing you with pain and heartache the moment you get close enough. It’s as if you can feel just how much he’s hurting, simply by being in his presence.
“I’m not scared of you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“You’re a fuckin’ liar,” he grinds out.
“Okay,” I admit, my fingers trembling as I reach them out slowly to touch the cross hanging down from his neck, “sometimes, I am afraid of you, but it’s not because I think you’re a murderer, it’s because I don’t know how to read you. I don’t think you’re a monster, Western, I think you’re broken.”
His hand moves up, and I wait for him to shove my fingers away, but instead his large hand curls around mine. My breath hitches as I meet his eyes, and something between us roars to life, a kind of need that I’m praying he’s feeling because it’s overwhelming for me. My legs are shaky, my skin is prickling, and my heart is racing. I want him, as unconventional and wrong as that is. I don’t know why, I can’t make sense of it, but I want him.
“What if you’re wrong?” he grinds out, his voice tight, but his hand remains on mine. “What if I did do it?”
“I’m not wrong,” I breathe.
His hand moves, slowly travelling down my wrist, over my elbow and there, he slides it up my arm until he reaches my shoulder. Holding my breath, I don’t move as he brings that big hand up to my neck, where he curls it around the back, pulling me forward. My body presses against his and a spark of something soars to life inside me. Breath hitching, I swallow and wait. I just wait.
I don’t know what he’s about to do.
“I haven’t kissed a woman in over twenty years.”
That shocks me.
It truly shocks me.
He’s married.
He hasn’t kissed his wife? Not even once?
“Hazel,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
“Never.”
Oh, god.
I can’t breathe.
Is he going to kiss me?
Do I want him to?
God, yes, I do.
I really do.
Reaching up, I place my hand on his arm and slowly move my fingers over his flesh, up his bicep, and to his chest when I splay my fingers out. I can smell the whiskey, he’s so close, and I can feel the warmth of his breath tickling my face. Does he want to kiss me? I know, that right now, in this moment, I want to kiss him.
“Do you want to kiss me, Western?”
His eyes lock onto mine, and his breath hitches, just the slightest amount.
“I’m married.”
The reality of that has me closing my eyes and exhaling.
He’s married.
It might not be the kind of marriage one would envision growing up, perfect with the love of your life, but it’s marriage all the same and, because of that, I can’t get in the way. I can’t ask him to make a decision that will only make his life that much harder, even if every single inch of me wants to drown in him right now.
I step back, releasing him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should never have asked that question.”