Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
But then I hear a lock unlatch and there he is, standing in a pair of gym shorts, no shirt, glistening with sweat like a freaking ancient sea god ascended from the bottom of the ocean, his eyes staring at mine with surprise and amusement.
All my words disappear.
Language fails me. I planned on tearing into him, but seeing his muscular chest, those tattoos, and all the memories they evoke—that night with him, the pleasure of his weight pinning me down, his lips on my throat, his cock between my legs, that incredible night of sin—my resolve floods away, leaving me weak.
“Hello, my something,” he says, stepping aside, a knowing smile on his lips like he expected me tonight. “I guess you’re here to talk.”
“Hi,” I finally manage, then grimace. I sound like a silly, scared little girl. Seriously, I need to get it together. “I mean, yes, Nolan, I’m here to talk about you blackmailing me.”
“I think blackmail is a strong term. I prefer to think of it as negotiating from a very strong position.”
“You can call it whatever you want, but it’s making me hate you.”
“Come inside then. I have some wine. Maybe that’ll help you remember why you actually enjoy my company.”
“You don’t have enough wine for that,” I mumble as I follow him into his house, closing the door on my way.
The place is beautiful. God, I hate him, but it’s the truth. High ceilings, textured molding, street lights streaming in through large windows. The rugs are simple, gray and black, but they mold seamlessly with the gleaming dark brown hardwood floors. The walls are painted in muted colors, and the decoration is mainly black and white photos of the city. Impersonal, but tasteful and expensive.
He takes me into the kitchen. Gleaming, professional fixtures. Crystal stemware in a glass-front cabinet. Even the refrigerator costs more than my entire apartment. He pulls out a bottle of wine and pours both of us a taste. I accept it, but don’t drink. He takes a long sip.
“I want to know what the hell you’re doing,” I say, staring at him on the other side of the island, hoping he stays over there. I don’t want him coming any closer. He’s still shirtless, still damp from his workout.
“Drinking,” he says, raising his glass. “Not having any?”
“Keeping my wits about me. It’s smart to stay sober in a snake’s den.”
He laughs and shrugs. “Whatever you prefer.” He puts his glass down. “I know you’re probably angry about the way things went yesterday.”
“Angry? That’s a cute word. I was thinking more like murderous. I’m feeling very murderous right now.”
“Here I was thinking I’m the only killer in this house.” He smirks at me, probably well-aware of the shiver that runs down my spine. “How about you tell me why you’re so angry, and maybe we can work this out.”
“I’m angry because you’re forcing your way into my business,” I say through my teeth. “I’m angry because I thought I was done with you after the renewal ceremony. I’m angry because instead of calling me, or texting, or emailing like a normal human being, you come strolling into my life with a nuclear bomb strapped to your chest.”
His eyebrows raise. “Email? You seriously think I’d email a woman after sleeping with her? I’ll blackmail you, my something, but I’d never email you.”
“Email would’ve be preferable to this. At least then I can send you to spam.”
“You’re much too important for something so impersonal.” He sighs, tapping his glass. “What about me makes you so angry? We had a nice night together, didn’t we?”
I hesitate, glancing away toward his luxurious living room. Fireplace, television, several large, green plants, and a big leather sofa. Books are stacked on the end table. “We had a perfectly adequate evening.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about your perfectly adequate lips wrapped around my rather extraordinary—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I snap at him, glaring hard. “Yes, I know we slept together, but you don’t have to remind me of the details.”
He shrugs, taking a sip of wine. “The memory of you hasn’t been far from my mind. Even when I’ve tried to get rid of it.”
“Then why not be normal and call me? Or do us both a favor and give yourself a concussion, maybe then you won’t remember anything.”
“I’m not normal.” He says that as if it excuses him. “And I prefer to avoid head trauma where possible.”
“I told you I want to run this business myself. Well, I want to do it with Jamila, but on our terms. I don’t want Ash’s money, and I sure as hell don’t want yours. Why can’t you just accept that and move on?”
He comes around the island, leaving his wine behind. I move away, deeper into his lair, until I bump up against the couch. He stops beside me, sitting on the back, arms crossed over his muscular chest, and looks almost thoughtful.