Page 43 of Ruined Vows
Damn that man.
I never should have let him pick me up for that first date.
Now, the precedent has been set—and it’s dangerous, very dangerous, because the heat that lingers between us isn’t my imagination. Just the thought of him makes me wet.
I’m sleepy this morning.I can’t remember my dreams, but I woke up horny, and it doesn’t take a PhD. to know why.
Vukan.
The bane of my existence—handsome in a way that leaves me breathless. No art can rival his sculpted body, his hard ass, broad shoulders. Nor can I forget his chiseled, inked body, or eight-pack abs. And his eyes that are so gray, I feel like I’m in a rainstorm. Eyes that don’t lie, not to me anyway.
I’m about to head to my kickboxing instructor for a private session. I fit a dagger into the thigh strap under my shirt when my phone buzzes. As if thinking about the man has conjured him.
What’s your body count today, Princess?
I smirk. I slide the phone into my palm and lean against the kitchen counter.
Just one.
The espresso machine tried to give me decaf.
Savage. I’m hard already.
I roll my eyes and slip the replacement espresso into the machine.
Do you text all your women for their stats this early in the day? Or am I special?
You’re the only one I can’t stop thinking about.
Three dots appear. I wait, anxious to see what else he’ll say. Then I curse myself for being interested. I can’t explain why my heart races. I stare intently at the phone, waiting breathlessly for his next retort.
And the only one I’d let hit me.
I did hit you.
I chuckle. I’m sure he’s keeping score.
And I’ve never been more turned on while icing a bruise.
I laugh—he’s charming. He’s good at this. Too good.
Still, there’s something off. The timing is slow, and there’s an edge under his words like he’s trying too hard to sound unaffected. But it’s not about me. Not this time.
I glance back at the screen. He’s typing, then stopping. Then he’s typing again.
You wearing green today?
Wouldn’t you like to know?
I would. And I’d imagine peeling it off, slowly, while making you tell me everything you’re trying not to say.
I press my thighs together. Damn him. I hate that he knows what that line does to me. My pussy contracts.
I type back slower this time, thinking of how to phrase my concern. I can’t be too obvious, it would send the message that I care. And I don’t—not really. But, I’m me. It would be rude to ignore his state of mind. I’d do it for anyone.
You good?
No answer.
