Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Jack catches my wrist and holds my hand against his cheek, his eyes shut. I can see the breath sawing in and out of his chest. He is as torn up as I am, as stunned by the intensity and desire.
Something that feels warm and fuzzy, and possibly bright pink and glittery gold rolls through my body and seems to fill me up. I’m happy. I’m so stupidly happy with this guy. All the bitter regret drains out of me, and I decide—I’m on this ride for as long as it lasts.
“Where does a guy take a hangry woman exactly?”
“Someplace quick and cheap.”
“Cheap and fast isn’t the way I do things, Serena, you haven’t figured that out by now?” he says archly.
“Anything I’ve ever had has been both,” I tell him.
“This is my big chance to change that.”
“With a slow expensive lunch? That’s not going to alter the course of my life. But one thing I’ve learned from growing up the way I did is that I have to grab something I want if I get the chance and go for it, because things almost always get worse. So, if I can snag an iced coffee or a cute pair of shoes on the clearance rack, I can’t hesitate.”
“I’m glad you see it that way or I never would’ve had a shot with you. If you’d had a chance to learn that there are deeper pleasures worth holding out for, you’d be with a better man than me.”
He kisses my wrist and my eyes drift shut. A tickle of excitement creeps up my arm and I shiver deliciously.
“Busy this afternoon?” he asks.
“I am now.”
He wants to treat me to a nice lunch, but we get turkey sandwiches and orange soda from a corner store I like. We sit together on a bench, and I steal a bite of his dill pickle.
“Want the rest of my pickle?” he offers. I shake my head.
“Unless you’re using pickle as a euphemism,” I tease.
It’s hilarious the way he grabs all our trash to stuff it in a bin and catches my hand to hurry me along to his car.
“If you want me, you just have to say so,” he says, tugging me into the circle of his arms, nuzzling the shell of my ear with his hot mouth.
I expect him to take me home, but we go to his club. I didn’t know men still had clubs like it’s London in the nineteenth century. But in no time, we’re whisked through a dim, wood paneled foyer and ushered to a private sitting room. There are leather chairs, a glass and walnut humidor, a crystal decanter set on the bar cart. The man who shows us the room reminds us to press the call button if we want anything further. Jack dismisses him.
“What is this place? Where you go to smoke and drink and unwind when your fancy penthouse is too crowded?” I tease.
“It’s a place to meet clients that’s outside my offices, more private, with all the amenities.”
His voice is dark with seductive promise and my skin heats at the prospect. I go to him where he sits on the sleek burgundy leather couch. My stomach is already starting to clench in anticipation of the pleasure. Every nerve in my body has learned fast, trained to anticipate the riot of ecstasy he’ll bring me.
Jack shrugs out of his tailored blazer, reveals his broad muscular shoulders and chest, the shadow of dark chest hair just visible through his white button down. My mouth waters at the sight, my heart hammering like I’ve run a marathon. I’m so worked up just knowing what to expect.
A grin slides across my face, and I know he registers my expression. He reaches up, traces the plain crew neck of my t-shirt with one finger. He lifts one eyebrow in question. Color floods my face, I nod my head too fast, wonder if it’s possible to give myself a concussion by saying yes too hard. He pinches the fabric, his other hand joins the first, and with a sharp tug, I hear the hiss of fabric ripping. My t-shirt hangs open all the way down the front. I’m breathing hard, turned on by his urgency, his primitive desire to tear off my clothes.
I set one hand on his shoulder and bend at the waist, my mouth brushing his cheekbone, reveling in the rough stubble, the salt flavor of his skin. His attention is riveted by what my ripped shirt revealed I didn’t wear a bra this morning. Now I’m glad I didn’t because there’s no barrier between my aching, heavy breasts and his big bare hands.
He fondles me, massages my breasts, suckles a nipple. He teases me, too soft, too light to give me what I crave. He knows this and I can practically feel him trying not to laugh as I dig my fingertips into his scalp, urging him on. Jack lifts his head and grins wicked as hell.