Their Broken Legend: A Stand-Alone Boxing Romance (Kids of The District Book 6) by Nicci Harris

Author:Nicci Harris [Harris, Nicci]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inki Publishing
Published: 2023-04-13T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

kaya

His house reminds me of our holiday home in British Columbia—well, the holiday home we used to have. The walls are vast, tinted, single-sided windows, letting the outside world in while privacy remains. The steps that incline three levels are a rich red wood—Jarrah, probably. Another wood, like mahogany, that’s hard and stunning and imperfect.

The house is spectacular.

We drove straight here from the hospital after I texted my mum with updates. It’s past midnight now but I have a planned visit with dad in the morning, so I’m in Xander’s laundry room, going toe to toe with his washing machine, while he’s showering upstairs.

Squatting, trying to figure out this touchscreen machine, I laugh contrived. I secretly wish for the old top-loaders at the motel with the coin push to activate. Simple. Just right for people who had so much abundance they didn’t learn with changing technology.

Didn’t need to.

Eco. That sounds like a responsible washing cycle. I stuff my shirt and jeans in the drum, close the glass portal door, and watch the spin begin. Hear the gentle hum as the machine vibrates. Seems promising.

Standing, I watch it fill with water. Lips touch my ear so I tilt my head to the side, accepting them as they trail down my neck. His hands grasp either side of the machine, caging me in, holding me in place. I look down at the veins racing along his forearms, a ripple of activity within them as his grip tightens around the top.

He gets closer behind me. Heat radiates from his large, finely cut physique, licking against my back and spine. “You weren’t in my bedroom.”

I feel tiny as he looms behind me. Under the intensity of his heat, I step forward, my hips touch the machine and my heart races, stoking my pulse to a frantic tattoo within my neck. His tongue laps at my pulse eagerly, chasing the race of my adrenaline.

I can feel the beat of my heart. He can probably taste the vibrations, the nerves. I don’t know why I’m nervous. He’s quiet, leading me into dark energy with him. The fervour in his breath carries a blanket of warmth. Of warning.

“Seeing you doing laundry makes me hard.” He presses his cock to my backside, and I moan when he rolls us against the washing machine.

“You’re with the wrong girl if that’s what gets you off, Hothead,” I say, losing my footing as he slides his erection up and down the gap between my cotton-covered arse-cheeks.

“I’m on fire, Baby,” he warns. I clutch the machine beside his hands, bracing myself as he eats at my neck, the previous vision of a panther mounting its mate making my fingers numb. He pries my hands from the machine, his dark voice by my ear, “Turn around.”

With a deep breath, I spin in the barrier of his formidable wall of muscles. My eyes cast down, until I drag them up his bare abdominals, over the patches of tattoos, along the smooth, hard plane of his chest, and peer through my upper lashes to see his face in all its dark, brutal beauty.

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