Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I flash back to the other day. When I was driven mad in the conference room with thoughts of him. “I had a meeting last week. The day you left. And I was distracted.”
“No distractions,” Gunnar says gently, reminding me of our motto.
“Exactly. But I was so consumed with thoughts of you.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“All of them. You. Pleasing you.” My voice turns smoky at the thought of what I want to do to him. Things that will make him shout my name. That will drive him wild.
“Don’t you want me to please you?” he asks.
It’s such a relief to hear him tease me. I’ve missed it—the flirting and the sarcasm, and all of his utter Gunnar-ness. I missed him too much while he was away.
“It comes down to the same thing,” I say, then return to my explanation. “And I drifted off in the meeting. I lost focus. All I could think about was you and the offer.”
“So then what?” he asks, urging me to keep going.
“I stopped paying attention to anything but your face, your body, and . . . you.”
His lips twitch in a grin. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I say, then lift my hand and graze the corner of his lips with my thumb. He bites down on it, and I ask, “This delights you?”
Gunnar gives a very cocky shrug—his signature move. “It sure does. Tell me more, Rafe. What were you thinking about?”
“Where you were. Whether you were contemplating what it would be like to be with me for thirty days. Whether you would say yes. I was obsessed. When my team asked me if I approved of the marketing campaign, I simply said yes.”
“You faked it,” he points out.
I grimace. “I trusted them to put together a good campaign. I hire smart people so I don’t have to be involved in every decision. But this time, apparently, the details involved you.”
“Seems they did,” he says, sounding resigned.
“What would you have preferred me to do if I had been paying attention? Call you and ask whether you wanted to be part of it?” If there’s a way I could have handled this better, I want to know it.
He doesn’t answer immediately, then says quietly, “I suppose so.”
“I wish I’d been on the ball. That I’d heard your name and reached out right away to discuss it with you.” I swallow roughly. “Please know that.”
After a suspenseful pause, he nods. I sigh in relief, but this is only one obstacle. “Are you worried how it would look if you did a deal with my company?”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “No. Your company will be lucky to have me as a spokesperson.”
I grin wickedly. “There’s that cocky charm I adore,” I say. Because he said “will.” And I do adore it. I adore him, and that’s truly terrifying.
Gunnar squares his shoulders. “I bring value to Rafe Rodman because I’m me.”
“You do,” I agree.
But Gunnar’s still holding back, judging from the set of his jaw. He exhales, then tells me, “I just don’t want to be blindsided or hoodwinked. I don’t want to be tricked.”
My heart squeezes. I like, so much, that he knows who he is and what he will and won’t tolerate. “I know that. I wouldn’t trick you.”
“And I definitely don’t want to be bought,” he adds. “That’s what bothered me the most—the idea that you’d dangle this sweet deal so I’d say yes to your other offer.”
“I would never do that to you,” I say adamantly. “If it makes you feel any better, my marketing agency selected you for the campaign. Everyone loves you for it.”
“Aww, but maybe I want you to love me,” he teases.
I flinch. It’s a reflex. He’s joking . . . or is he thinking about the future? Does he—would he—want me to love him someday?
That’s impossible. I won’t let myself love again.
I shake off the thought and focus on the moment. On thirty flirty days and nights.
“I swear I had nothing to do with it. Does that make you happy?”
His grin is sky high. “Incredibly. I don’t want a sweetheart deal. I never want to be offered a contract because I know somebody or because I’m fucking the CEO.”
I release his hand so I can slide a palm up his thigh. In my sternest tone, I say, “But I’m going to be fucking you.”
He smirks. “Are you?”
I’m tired of gamesmanship right now, and I choose the path of brutal honesty. “I want to. I’m a little obsessed with you.” Admitting this lifts a weight from my chest but a new one takes its place.
The strength of my obsession is its own risk.
“I’m a little obsessed too,” Gunnar says, husky and needy as he opens up to me.
Fuck it. There’s no a little obsessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Gunnar. I can’t get you out of my head,” I confess as I slide my hands up his chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt.