Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
I grow so dizzy following the procession of designer cars to the lower level of the lot that I either pull over and settle the rush of nausea it’s caused or spend the remainder of my night cleaning vomit from my clothes.
Sweat dots my neck when I park in the first available space. It is meant for electric vehicles requiring a charge, but I don’t care. Rules are meant to be broken, and if a bend in the road saves me from an unwanted barf-fest, I’ll be the first to explore it.
The reminder sees me snagging the keys I left the Broadbent Hotel with, and my phone from the middle console, before I head for the elevator marked Personnel Only.
I jump out of my skin when the elevator call button fails to illuminate no matter how many times I jab it. It isn’t my annoyance of its faulty nature causing my skittishness. It’s the husky voice projecting from a speaker next to my head startling me.
Mikhail chuckles at my frightened response before he repeats his request for me to place the key he gave me into a slot at the side of the elevator’s checker plate doors.
“If any rando could ride the service elevator, I’d have to get more than one bed.”
I realize he’s watching me when his laughter deepens after I roll my eyes.
“There you go,” he murmurs when the twist of a key illuminates the elevator button. “You’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug in no time.” Either more time passed than I realized, or the trio’s eagerness to get Mikhail alone saw him leaving his shift earlier than planned, because there’s no denying the sorrowed whine of three thirsty women at the end of his sentence. “Not you guys. Jesus. We just got here.” His voice loudens, announcing his focus is back on me. “You good, Sunshine? The girls are getting impatient.”
I gag. What’s with the nicknames today? I went from having none to multiple in hours.
I’m also jealous. Not of Mikhail moving on after my rejection, but that he’s having the fun I swore I would have when I gave up stability for the right to make my own decisions.
If I had followed the life plan my mother had devised for me, I wouldn’t have needed to work a day in my life. My husband would have been as old as he was decrepit. Since his age would force him to overlook my fertility issues, the societal standards of the rich would permit me to display only graciousness.
I glare at the speaker box when Mikhail asks, “Do you need a cuddle or a shit? I’ve not quite worked out your expressions yet.”
My reply instantly halts his chuckles. “I need to get laid.”
“Then why the fuck am I all the way over here instead of in my bed, working out your best O face?”
With the ease of our conversation making it seem as if we’ve been friends for decades, I shrug. “It probably has something to do with your marshmallow heart. I’m not a fan of soft and gooey things.”
“That’s the only soft and gooey thing you’ll get from me, sweetheart. The rest is hard, thumping, and—Jesus fucking Christ, Kitty. You know my cock is attached, right? It isn’t detachable like the big black beast Jasmina is whirling around her…” A moan cuts him off this time instead of an impatient woman. “Sunshine, I’ve got to go. Help yourself to anything you want. Nothing is off-limits.” As he pulls his phone away from his ear, I hear him say, “I don’t recall giving any of you permission to start without me.”
I stop staring at the speaker box like podcast voyeurism is my kink when the elevator dings, announcing its arrival on my floor.
I’ve barely stepped inside when its doors slam shut and it begins its climb to the penthouse. I didn’t even need to select my floor.
Stupidity smacks into me hard and fast when it stops its climb only one floor later. A man grumbling his frustration about being stalked by the paparazzi enters the confined space at the speed of a bullet being dislodged from a gun.
He’s so riled up that we ascend three floors before he realizes he has company. My unexpected presence causes the hairs on his nape to bristle, and the anger teeming out of him makes the conditions unbearable.
“If you’re a reporter hoping for an exclusive, you entered the wrong fucking elevator.” His last three words are roars, but I pay the most attention to the molten lava hotness of his voice.
I’ve heard it before, only hours ago, and it was as dangerous to my libido back then as it is now.
I can’t move, speak, or think.
All I can do is fight the urge not to melt like a popsicle on a hot summer’s day.