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Knight Cole,
I gathered I’d crashed on the floor again. And by the sticky feeling in my groin, followed by the breeze rolling through my neatly trimmed pubes, I knew I’d shoved my cock into holes I shouldn’t have the night before, and I was gloriously naked.
I felt tits. Nice, plump, and natural. Without opening my eyes, I brought a nipple into my mouth, suckling on it idly.
“Specifically speaking, I don’t have any. Just think of me, like, as Bambi: cute AF but super stupid and in total need of supervision.”
The important thing to remember was, my balls weren’t going to fall off. I’d Googled it a few times (twenty-three times, if we’re being specific here) to be on the safe side. It was confirmed: I could live for six months without having sexual intercourse and still survive. Physically. My mind was another matter. If I was going to lose it in the process, I was going to tear Sailor Brennan limb from limb, then sew her back together into a sex doll.
She released the arrow. I repeat: Bitch. Released. The. Arrow.
My dick was about to slip out of my sweatpants and curl around her ankle
like an eager puppy.
“Just so we’re clear, you may be my babysitter, but you don’t call the shots. You do not boss me around, you do not make stupid-ass decisions with your body. Finally, you do not fucking hunt me. I’m the hunter here, sweetheart. And you? The goddamn prey.”
“Your name may be Hunter, but make no mistakes—you’ll never catch me.”
“Bitch is blowing up like a sex doll at a Virgins Anonymous convention. Everything cool?”
“You are my butterfly, Sailor. And maybe I’m not Gerald’s flesh and blood, but make no mistakes—when I finally catch you, I intend to capture you, too.”
“Love is a great marketing strategy. Sells a lot of books, movies, and diamonds. Aside from that, I do not consider myself a big fan of it.”
“We’re a team now. A pack. The Boston Belles.”
If you want it, it is yours. To keep. To use. To burn. With this, you’ll never fall. —Hunt I smiled bitterly, allowing a tear to slide down my cheek. “Silly boy,” I whispered. “I already have.”
Forget the knight in shining armor. I’m the dipshit in tin foil.
“But if you’re asking me to choose between the family fortune and Sailor Brennan, I’m going to have to kiss your money goodbye and bow out of this one, Fitzpatrick or not.”
“Can I go Christian Grey on your ass and invite you for a trip in my private plane?” I flashed her my pearly whites. “I guess. But no BDSM.” “Boo. You’re no fun.” “Invite someone else, then.” She laughed. I pulled her out, barely resisting the urge to kiss her. “Fun is overrated. Let’s go.”
Then I remembered pussy didn’t matter anymore, unless it was attached to a certain redheaded banshee.
“And of course,” Hunter spread his arms, continuing his monologue, “in true Fitzpatrick fashion, I had to go and fall in love with the daughter of a…” He paused, backtracking when he realized what he was about to say. “A legitimate businessman, unless proven otherwise.”
“Angry angel. Aingeal dian means angry angel
It wasn’t just an engagement ring. No. The stones—rubies and diamonds—were arranged in the shape of a bow.
“I want you,” he said gruffly. “Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. I want you to be mine, Sailor Brennan. No one else’s, ever.”
