Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
I nod, feeling almost hypnotized by his voice and his words. And it’s what I later come to blame for the shit that leaves my mouth in this moment as he carries me out of the metal container. “You keep calling me that and using that tone and I’m going to be forced to show you just how little I am.”
Which made complete sense in my brain as I spoke the words, knowing I meant my pussy that had been in hibernation for almost a year now. Meaning: I’m probably cat-lady tight after this long.
But I’m so embarrassed it came out of me at all—as in with my outside voice and not just one of my many, many in-my-head voices—that I don’t absorb any reaction my rescuer might’ve outwardly shown. God only knows if he’s able to read my mind to catch my meaning like he did with the Humpty Dumpty thing. If so, FML for verbally and sexually harassing some poor guy just trying to do his job and kick the dumpster-diving crazy plant lady off the property. If not, at the very least, he’ll think I’m even more psycho than he already did after I chose to go down with my cactus ship.
Before I can figure out any type of logistics of how exactly he’ll be getting me—us—out of here, the next thing I know, I’m on the outside of the dumpster, his hands are no longer hidden inside leather work gloves, and I’m watching in awe at how such masculine fingers can be so gentle as they peel off my gardening glove. I flinch just a little as the palm and fingers of the fabric come loose from my skin, definitely feeling some thorns pulling free along with it. It’s not until his warm paw is holding my tiny-looking hand up to the light that I finally realize where my body actually is.
Perched upon this stranger’s lap.
On the rolling metal staircase that was parked over next to building when I first climbed into the dumpster almost an hour ago.
Which explains how he was able to “parkour!” his way inside a few minutes ago.
And for some reason, I just don’t care why my mind is more fixated on the fact that he somehow rolled the staircase over without me ever hearing him—oooh, that was probably the loud clang that scared the shit out of me as it hit the side of the dumpster—than it is on my ass being snuggled right up against so much hardness it really should not be this comfortable.
He sighs behind his mask, drawing my eyes back to his instead of where his giant hand is making mine look like a child’s, and I watch as he uses his other one to yank his apron out from beneath my thigh before reaching into one of the pockets. My brows furrow as he pulls out a penlight, clicking it on, then aiming it at my sore palm. It seems like such a random thing for someone to have so handy, but I guess he’d need it more often as an evening-shift employee than one who works during the daytime, and it’d be much lighter in his pocket than some big flashlight.
Not that this guy has to ever worry about the “piddly” weight of a Maglite that would have me breathing heavily.
With all these muscles.
Even hidden beneath a solid layer of clothing, there’s no way to hide the width and massiveness of his shoulders, the bulging biceps, the sinewy forearms….
Jesus, Sienna. The “sinewy forearms”? You’ve fallen into full-on romance author description mode. Take a breath, woman!
I bite my lip as his eyes narrow, making the slight angle of them—higher at the outer corners than the inner—more apparent as he shines the penlight on my abused flesh. I’m so zoned in to trying to figure out just what color they really are that I actually jump a little when his growl—even as quiet as it is—fills the space between us.
“Just what I thought,” he murmurs, but it’s more to himself than to me, and he doesn’t even bother making eye contact with me or speaking as he stands up, taking me right along with him as if he’s just standing from a table with his cup of coffee in hand.
He spins and gently sets me on the top step, the metal as hard as his thighs but not nearly as pleasant, and he backs down the stairs while holding the railing.
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he orders, and somehow it doesn’t come off as bossy and annoying. Something about him makes me want to listen to him, to follow his lead. Like, if I just do as he says without question, everything will be okay.
I nod, my arm stretched out in front of me, my elbow resting on my knee, palm up so he can do whatever it is he’s going to do when he returns.