Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Three times. Or was it four? Whatever it was, I’m not thinking about that. Instead, I spring up on my feet. Bending down, I reach out for the bucket of water and a little washcloth he’s left for me. It’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be with my hands tied.
Oh yeah, my hands are tied.
That was the very very first thing I noticed when I woke up. Even before the sun and the dirt and all the other things. But I decided to not dwell on that because I guess I can’t blame him after what I did last night. I mean, he’s my kidnapper, isn’t he? He’s using me for revenge. I’m nothing but an object to him. Just because he made me come… No.
Absolutely not. Stop. Right now.
The point is, nothing has changed. Even though it feels like it has a little bit.
Even though, I can’t help but feel my heart clench at the fact that he tied the rope in a way that has enough of a give so I can easily wash up and eat. Or that every morning, no matter where we are, he always remembers to feed me breakfast.
Just as I’m done eating, I hear another splash and my eyes jump over to the lake-type-thing. Only to have them go wide and for my mouth to drop open because holy God.
Holy fucking God.
There he is, emerging from the water. Last night, the fire was too low and he was too fast for me to see anything, but not anymore. Now I can see everything. Every powerful, masculine, wet inch of him.
So, so wet.
The water is sluicing down his thick, dark hair and sharp face. It tunnels through the arched planes of his pecs that seem like the expanse of a land that can probably withstand a thousand galloping hooves. Before splashing along the grooves of his abs that I thought were ladderlike but that I realize now look more like the harsh terrain of a mountain. And don’t get me started on the dark dusting of his chest hair. Lighter at the top but growing thicker along the abdomen with the thickest trail disappearing into the waistband of his…
A literal gasp escapes me when I realize the only thing he’s wearing is black-colored shorts. I mean, of course, he was swimming. But now they’re wet like the rest of him and they fit him like a second skin.
Which means several things.
First, I can see every flex of his thighs—and this is what Peyton means when she says tree-trunk thighs—as he walks out of the water. The way his thickly muscled thighs tense with every step he takes makes me wonder how the ground isn’t shaking beneath his feet.
Because I am. I am shaking. My heart is shaking, and I haven’t even looked there yet.
By there, I mean the thing that is the hardest on his body, or at least gets the hardest when the occasion calls for it; and before I can talk myself out of it or more into it, I skitter my eyes to the spot and freeze. Why was I wasting my time checking out his abs of steel or his iron-welded thighs when I could’ve been looking at that… bulge in his shorts?
I lean forward a little, squinting at it. It’s big, that rounded bump. It’s almost stretching the fabric of his shorts to the max, sticking out almost. Sort of like a tent. Was it this big last night? And how does it fit into a girl? All I know is that I have to squeeze my thighs hard. Like, really, really hard. And even though I washed up, my thighs still feel sticky. Or maybe it’s because I’m wet again. I’m leaking all over, just at the sight of his nearly naked body.
So it’s a good thing when he bends down to pick up the pile of his clothes from the ground and I lose sight of it. It’s even better when he puts his jeans on, covering his magnificent muscles, the fabric getting soaked in places from the water. Then, as he straightens up, I watch him rake his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back before heading toward the camp. Actually, he first spears me with his dark eyes, and he does it in a way that makes me think he knew I was sitting here all along, watching him like a perv.
Even though I’m embarrassed at being caught, the closer he gets, my embarrassment is overcome by concern. I see the cut on his body, just by his collarbone. An angry-looking, reddened gash.
I’m staring at his wound so hard, all wet and dripping with water, that by the time he makes it back to the camp and takes his place on the opposite log, my own shoulder is throbbing with a phantom ache. He picks up the saddlebag by his log—something I hadn’t noticed before—and retrieves a first aid kit.