Page 84 of Reckless

No one has looked at me the way Jude is looking at me now. It’s as if he is seeing inside of my mind, trying to figure out what I’m thinking. He picks up one of my hands and brings it to his mouth, kissing my fingertips.

He rolls onto his back again and the momentum and him holding my hand has me moving too. It’s obvious what he wants, but I take my time, moving slowly on to my knees, making sure he sees as I give his body another sweep.

“You tease,” he murmurs.

My smile is devious. I’m only prolonging my agony. Sex with Jude Smallwood is fast becoming an addiction. I lift one leg and slide onto his lap.

A flood of heat pools between my legs. I can’t believe how much I want him and how ready we both are for one another. It’s dangerous and delicious and I will not overthink this anymore.

“Take what you want, Krista,” he murmurs, running his hands up my thighs, dipping into the sides of my panties, moving beneath the fabric squeezing my ass. His grip tightens, and he holds me still, giving me a serious look. “Do one thing for me first.”

My feverish brain stalls. “What?”

He smirks. “Put on the hat.”

Chapter 21

It’s not so bad getting around the center of Minneapolis. People are busy going about their day, and even when they’re friendly and smile in greeting, mostly men, at Krista, they pay me no attention. The car she hired is a god send though, knowing it’s there if we need it helps put me at ease.

We went for lunch, walked across the Stone Arch Bridge, and visited the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Krista hasn’t mentioned her love of art before. It’s something we have in common, and she was surprised when I recognized some of the artists' names.

As we walked, I held her hand. A foreign concept for me. Walking the streets with a beautiful woman, holding her hand. Never in my wildest dreams did I think this would be something I could do. The connection between us only seems to heighten. I’m kind of done worrying about what it means.

Being around her brings me peace. For the first time in ages, I feel like me again. The man I was before Reckless Soul. Only a slightly different version because that part of me is still inside and always will be.

We find a bookstore and her eyes light up because it spans three floors. I suggest we separate, but only because I’m hunting for her books. Krista heads off, after confirming three times I’ll be alright.

Truth is, if anything happens, I’d rather she wasn’t here. Keeping my head down, I head to the thriller fiction section. When I come upon a row containing her books, I’m surprised by how many titles there are.

Krista has talked a lot about her writing and she’s working as much as she can in between our stops, and the sex. In fact, she’s said I’m becoming too much of a distraction, which I’m not mad about. But she’s never told me how prolific her work is.

Running my finger along the books, I count eleven titles. And she said there are some you can only get online right now.

The one with the ballerina slippers covered in blood piques my attention, reminding me of the ballerina slippers in the RV. I turn it over and read the back. Then I open the book and read the whole of the last chapter, standing in front of the shelves.

My brows lift because although I know she’s good at what she does, no doubt about her talent, this doesn’t sound like her. I suppose the books authors write are an escape from their real worlds. I mean, Krista isn’t a ballerina. Or a psychotic killer.

Someone clears their throat next to me.

“Do you know how wrong what you just did is?” A female voice asks.

Glancing over, I try to keep the brim of the cap over my eyes. Hopefully, I look like a creep, and she backs off. No such luck. The woman isn’t angry. She’s smiling.

“Reading the last chapter is a cardinal sin. Now how are you going to enjoy the rest of the book knowing the build-up and all the suspense are gone?”

“Guess I don’t like surprises.”

She shakes her head, but she isn’t mad about it. It’s obvious why. Women don’t approach random men unless they’re interested. My anxiety rises, but I keep my face neutral. It’s a talent I’ve gained over the years. The instinct to look around for the bodyguards we normally have tailing us everywhere flares up. I’m alone here.

It’s one woman. I will not let her ruin what has been a great day so far. She’s about my age, short, with brown hair and eyes. She’s wearing a lot of make-up and grinning.

“Have you read many of her books?” she asks. Clearly not letting this go.

Over her shoulder, I notice Krista coming down the stairs. She spots me, and the woman and her jaw tenses. It’s her I’m watching as the woman continues talking. The determined stride and look of annoyance on her gorgeous face has me smirking. Then the woman snags my attention again.

“She’s okay,” she’s saying. “I’d recommend other authors over her. I mean, some of her storylines are far-fetched and at times you can tell she hasn’t done any research.”

“You’re telling me not to read her books?” My tone is more annoyed than curious, but this woman is oblivious. I’m sure she wouldn’t be saying this shit if she knew the author is standing behind her.

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