Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106159 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“You don’t want my money?” Matvei asks, his tone surprised and with a hint of amusement.
I fold my arms over my chest before lifting my eyes to his face. His chiseled chin, sculptured nose, and panty-wetting eyes make what I am about to say ten times harder. “No, I don’t. Not like this.”
He balks, physically shocked. “Okay.”
As he scrubs at his five o’clock shadow, he gestures with his free hand for his friend to lead their exit. However, his feet remain planted on the ground, and his eyes linked with mine.
Everything tightens when the delay of his departure makes the tension teeming between us palpable. It is as pressurized as it was in the alleyway, acutely sexual and magnetic. I can feel the energy surging between us, and the dampness his watch causes between my legs.
You’d swear I responded how he’d hoped. That he doesn’t want this to be purely about business any more than I do, and my assumption almost becomes factual when he asks, “Who is the money for?”
I take a moment to settle the heat the deep rasp of his voice caused my insides before replying, “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” he immediately fires back. After walking to the door, shutting it, and clicking the lock into place, he shifts his focus back to me. “It’s not for you, so who is it for?”
Through pursed lips, I ask, “How do you know it isn’t for me?”
His lips twisting at one side forces my knees to curve inward. “I know, so answer the question. Who is it for?”
“It is for a friend.”
I give him the most generic response possible, but it doesn’t lessen his interrogative skills. “A male or female friend?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The grumble of his deep tone rumbles through me as he repeats, “It matters to me.”
Needing to distract myself before I respond to the jealousy in his tone with more than words, I say, “If you want your money’s worth, we should start. Jax would have set the timer by now.”
My eyes snap to his when he murmurs under his breath in a low tone, “Another man to add to my already extensive list.”
“What?” I bark out with an unladylike chuckle. “The only time you’ll ever need to worry about Jax is when you love dick as much as I do.”
My knees touch as his growl rumbles through me before bouncing off the wall to complete a second tour through my body. “Your mouth is filthy. Perhaps I should wash it out.”
Desperate for an even playing field and feeding off the hint of playfulness in his tone, I reply, “That would cost extra, and we only negotiated for a dance.” I nod my head to a chair in the middle of the room. “If you take a seat, we’ll get started.”
My heart beats double-time when he does as asked without further bickering. It isn’t solely the power he radiates while doing something as simple as breathing that has my heart in such a state. It is the wide span of his thighs and the knowledge there’s no way I can straddle his lap without giving him a glimpse of the mess his face caused my panties.
Hopeful it will settle the erratic beat of my heart, I start my “performance” behind him. I rake my nails over his pecs while swinging my hips in rhythm to the music pumping into the room via speakers in the roof.
The mirrors hogging three walls of the square box ensure he’ll get his money’s worth, but they worsen the situation between my legs. They don’t give me a moment of reprieve from his hooded gaze, which is responsible for only half the dampness slicking my panties.
It isn’t possible to dance this close to a man as fetching as him and not get snagged by his allure. Furthermore, dancing is sensual, but it is more blistering when there are only two participants. It is sexual, almost erotic.
I’ve loved dancing for as long as I could walk, so any leftover unease about the commencement of our exchange slides away within minutes, and my moves become less robotic and manufactured.
I strut, bob, and bounce around Matvei until the moisture clinging my panties to my pussy can be excused as sweat, and my smile is as large as the fake chandelier dangling above our heads.
The only time doubt resurfaces is when I straddle Matvei’s lap. I’m not the only one turned on by my performance. Matvei is hard, and even with my head shouting for me not to grind down on the erection testing the durability of his zipper, I don’t listen.
My girlfriends and I go out dancing to experience precisely this. The pulsating thud of lust no number of drinks can numb. The perfect hand placements and tiny droplets of sweat that add to the scent invigorating your veins with the wish to live.