◆◆◆ Chapter 14 ◆◆◆
~ Niklaus Henderson ~
I dragged myself downstairs to the study, poured three fingers of Macallan 25 into a tumbler with shaking hands, and dropped into the leather armchair facing the ocean. The glass was cold against my split knuckles. I didn’t care. I drank—deep, burning swallows—letting the scotch sear down my throat, hoping it would cauterize whatever was bleeding inside me.
Two weeks.
It had been just over two weeks since I walked into that library and saw her behind the circulation desk—chestnut hair slipping from its knot, glasses sliding down her nose, full breasts pressing against cream cotton in a way that made my mouth water instantly. Two weeks since I’d given her my private card and she appeared in my office a week later, she’d ridden me reverse cowgirl
