The Pack Rule Number 1 No Mates novel Chapter 239

Chapter Two Hundred Thirty–Nine 

ROSE 

Every single particle of my being is facing with awareness when Bartlett sits me on his lap. The truck we are in is a newer model and definitely roomy enough for the two of us, but when I try to move to grab my own sent, he closes his arms around my body and I’m pressed tightly up against him. For a moment I simply stare at the side of his face. The dark caramel tan that evenly coats his flesh is set off by the brightness in his jewel blue eyes. Thick, dark lashes fan out beneath his brow, much longer than should be considered fair any man to have. The punch of his jawline is barely hidden behind the scruff of his beard. A beard that is the exact same medium shaus of brown as his hair. Like a mingle of butterscotch curls and chocolate, the locks look so soft that I’m dying to run my fingers through them. He is gorgeous even with half of his face covered and for a moment I wonder what he looks like behind all that fuzz. 

Tearing my eyes away, my gaze rushes over the winding tattoos that twist up his forearms to disappear beneath his shirt. Peeking out once again along his collarbone and up the back of his neck. I am dying to see the rest of it. I want to know how dark his tattoos are beneath his shirt. What do they represent? What do they mean? Do they stand for something special? Someone special? 

I want to 

actually know him. 

If I hadn’t been in danger when we met, would he have even noticed me? Probably not. But i would have noticed him anywhere. 

There is no denying it now. I am one hundred and fifty percent crushing on this handsome hero that’s holding me. The way it feels to have his strong arms banded around me is bewitching. I can almost pretend that we’re a couple. That we’re not just simply sexy, tattooed God and boring, average Rose – but we’re a unit. A pairing. A man and his woman on their way to the docks. 

God, wouldn’tE 

I that 

be nice. 

Stop being such a dork, Rose. 

Pretending? Really? You are eighteen. 

And a virgin 

I doubt that Bartlett would want me sitting here if he knew just how inexperienced I am. It’s not just the virgin thing. It’s way worse than that. I’ve never even been kissed or asked on a date or given a valentine or done anything romantic, ever. Never. 

As my nerves begin to crawl down from my thoughts, my body tenses and I’m suddenly worried that I may be crushing him beneath my enormous weight. Okay, so Im not that big, but I’m thicker than most. I’ve definitely been labeled a fatass a time or two. 

As the truck rumbles down the hill, the wide expanse of the ocean is revealed and I try to make out any islands that might be out there, but I can’t see past the quickly thickening fog. We’re close now, I can see boats bobbing on the water and- 

my God… What is he doing? 

My heart stutters as a warm demanding hand splits my thighs, massaging and stroking me over my jeans. Its Bartlett’s hand, I’m sure, it couldn’t be anyone else’s and I’m too much of a chicken to even look at him. Instead, I simply sit there like a frigid old bird. Or a dead bird, take your pick. Shame washes over me as I realize how stupid I must look pretending that I don’t know that he’s touching me. 

In the dark of the cab, with the black suede seating and limo tinted windows, I should feel a bit braver. I should at least have the courage to acknowledge him. But I don’t. My breath freezes in my chest, my lungs tightening as I’m suddenly too anxious to breathe. As my cheeks. flush hot and my brow begins to sweat, I wonder how long it will take for me to pass out from lack of oxygen. 

But then… Bartlett’s fingers trace the outline of my slit over the denim of my jeans and air whooshes into my chest as I gasp. A whimper escapes me, my clit pulsing. Beating with enough vigor to have a heartbeat of its very own. Oh my God that feels so good. Much better than when I do it to myself. He isn’t even doing much more than tracing the seam of my pants at the center of my mound, but somehow it’s enough. 

1/3 

Fri, Nov 

Chapter Two Hundred Thirty–Nine 

Thirty–Ning 

Nevermind, it’s not enough. With every light stroke of his hand he devastates n 

me, because now I’m starving for more. 

My hand claws at his wrist and I hear him inhale sharply before he reaches over to peel my offending fingers from his flesh. 

Shit, my bad. 

“S–sorry,” I whisper sheepishly, lowering my head so that my hair falls over my face like a curtain, hiding me from his eyes 

not sure, but I think I hear him growl and I realize for the first time that he never released my hand. Instead, he guides it toward him, drawing it down to his lap boldly and placing it over the front zipper of his jeans. Something thick and as hard as steel pushes against my palm. As he attempts to close my hand around it, I realize what it is. The tip of his erection and… my God, are they really that big? 

s to a 

His fingers between my thighs press harder against my clit and I tremble, my legs separating wantonly as the truck suddenly comes stop. That was quick. Are we there already? 

My answer comes when someone dips his nose into my hair and 1 feel his lips along my ear. Bartlett’s voice is dark and husky when he