Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say dryly, not mentioning that I’ve been checked out every week and that I’m clean. I also don’t add how I go to my concierge doctor for the screenings and tests.
And by doctor, I mean his dad.
Thank God for doctor-patient confidentiality.
Farrow’s know-it-all smile starts expanding inch by inch.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“You jumped from exclusivity to announcing that you have a lot of sex.”
I don’t follow his logic. “Your smile is going to fall off your fucking face.”
He practically overflows with amusement. “You don’t think I can satisfy you?”
My brows jump. Huh.
By his sheer confidence, he clearly knows he can.
Our eyes trail over each other, and my cock throbs again. A groan scrapes my throat. “More like,” I whisper lowly, “I was warning you. In case you didn’t want sex every day, multiple times a night. I try not to assume what people are into.”
Farrow opens his mouth, but loud voices filter through his earpiece on the front seat. He stretches towards the middle console but glances back to say, “I’m into you. If I couldn’t keep up, I wouldn’t be your bodyguard.” He grabs the radio and connecting earpiece. Turning up the volume, Akara’s voice floods the car.
“…find Farrow. He needs to check in.”
His jaw muscle tics, and he hooks his radio to his waistband. Whoever was chosen to “find Farrow” can’t find me with him. Not bare-chested, hair askew, lips reddened, dicks stiff—no.
I toss his black shirt at his tattooed chest. I’m used to abrupt endings and constant rain checks, but this one is hard. Pun abso-fucking-lutely intended.
I pull my green shirt over my head and open the door. “Thanks for the blue balls.”
He fits his earpiece in. “You’ll thank me more when I take all of you in my mouth.”
My muscles clench, blood heating at the visual. I look back at Farrow.
His lips rise. “You’re easily hot and bothered.”
“And you’re not?” I combat.
“I conceal mine better. Comes with the territory.” He motions to his radio. “Don’t look so sad, wolf scout. You can’t be the best at everything.”
I wear zero sadness. I’m glaring. “Have fun with your hand. Dream of me.” I climb out and shut the door. In the garage. I leave with the last word but feel his amusement as I go.
Despite all the risks, the new territory, I find myself grinning.
16
MAXIMOFF HALE
Out of my whole family, Connor Cobalt has the best office, the best view—hands down. Whenever I’m in the sleek city high-rise of Cobalt Inc., I either lose myself gazing out the window, a breathtaking Philly skyline, or I focus on the memorabilia my uncle shelves and hangs.
Rain pelts the glass and thunder roars. I’m not fixated on the storm. I’m currently staring hard at a framed National Geographic magazine on the navy-blue wall.
The cover shows a rugged, dark-haired man in his late thirties, skin tanned from the sun. With the horizon bleeding orange and yellow, he grips a rock face from at least four-hundred feet high. Using only his right fingertips. Legs hanging off, left arm dangling.
No harness.
No rope.
The sun rises behind him.
I read the title of the magazine: From Such Great Heights: The Best Free-Solo Climber in the World. Ryke Meadows.
My uncle.
My dad’s half-brother.
He’s in his forties now, and he still climbs. He still makes the front pages of magazines, and he has about five different sponsorships and ad campaigns.
Usually I would stare at this with admiration and be proud to know Ryke. I am. But I’m stuck here. Looking harder. Staring longer.
I see his dark, disheveled hair, his thick eyebrows, golden tan, and the way his body is cut and ripped and lean—and I see me. Or at least what I look like without the constant light-brown hair dye.
I inherited my sharp cheekbones from my dad, but that’s it. At the end of the day, I look more like Ryke Meadows than I do Loren Hale.
“He hates that one,” Uncle Connor says.
I rotate.
My intelligent, polished uncle watches me from behind his desk. Jane’s dad has blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and he wears a tailored suit with as much confidence as he’s worth. Billions. Like my dad and Uncle Ryke, he’s in his forties, and they’re all still lauded for their good looks.
Connor Cobalt has been People’s Sexiest Man Alive three times in the past decade alone.
We’re waiting for Ryke and my dad to show. I typically meet them at public restaurants. But since the media frenzy about my fight and the Camp-Away, they all three decreed “office lunch” before I could protest.
And Connor was the one who reinstated the cancelled lunch. This morning he called Dalton Academy and smooth-talked the administration. No parent-teacher meeting, so here I am.
Trying not to remember about last night in my Audi.
With Farrow. I’ll start smiling like an idiot, and he’d totally call me out if he were here. The high-rise has secure entrances. So Farrow is allowed to leave and eat at the food court below, drive my Audi around—pretty much whatever he wants.