Deviant Royal (Duke of Tudor #1) Read Online Amarie Avant

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Series: Duke of Tudor Series by Amarie Avant
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Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
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Lux, that’s highly impossible. This room is too expensive for one night of—This room is so not available for one night! Girl, asking for one night is probably like asking for two hours at the Budget Inn.

“You have questions.” His tone sounds so confident, a statement of fact as opposed to an inquiry.

That’s different.

Questions may teem from my mind, but I know one thing for sure. He’s insistent. He could’ve ordered me to speak.

So far this morning, he tenderly washed me in the shower, then his eyes devoured me as I applied the hotel’s signature lotion.

The power exchange has been a pleasant delight from interacting with men my age who are video game connoisseurs. For the time being, I’ll take the following debauchery tactics: Grab me by the hair. Lead me like a lamb to the slaughter.

I like this. Perhaps a little too much.

I find my voice. “Kind of.” I have a thousand questions, emotions, cravings. My gaze flickers over Victor’s washboard abdominals, and another question comes to mind.

How does he have time for work and to look so tasty?

I clear my throat. “So, how long are you staying in New York, Dr. Finch?” Please don’t say you live around the corner in an open marriage with a multilingual wife and kid.

A burly shoulder lifts. “Not sure.”

“Well, you strike me as the type who is always certain. Especially last night.” I blush, body overwhelmed by ripples of pleasure, even though he hasn’t given a straight answer. Inside, I already selfishly want to claim his dick for life. Pet it. Kiss it. Suck it. Own it for life.

I may be young, but I have a few friends who went to college as a means of freedom and for experimentation. They shared every juicy detail, and I’ll be damned if any story was as titillating as last night. The second Victor leaves town, I’m jumping into my grungy yellow-polka dot pajamas for a few weeks tops. Who am I kidding? Sex like that, I’ll be in mourning for a year! “Where do you come from?”

“I came from . . . Saudi Arabia.” An amused glint flickers in his eye as he slides into tailored slacks. It’s the only playful thing about Victor. Next, another crisp shirt will remove my view of his ripped body. But he doesn’t put on the black button-up.

As if my curiosity was satisfied, Victor sits.

No, I mean he claims a chair. I’m not acting like a callow girl who’s fallen for an older man. Other people plop down—pop a squat. Sit. He turns the space into his kingdom.

“Come.”

My arms fold. I don’t want a simple reply. I want depth. From a couple of feet away, Victor’s striking gaze sears my thighs. A jackhammer launches between my legs. I lean against a sleek end table, drawing my hands together to fall over my sex. The button-down covers my ass, but I’m not wearing panties and Victor’s hungry. Shit, I hope he’s ravenous. He has yet to reciprocate.

I displace my craving for him and ask, “Here I assumed you were British. Were you raised in Saudi Arabia?”

It finally clicks. The reason I was compelled to date Victor. The aura swirling around him reminds me of my beloved Harlem—diverse and cultured.

“No. That’s where I was immediately before arriving here, Lux.” He waves a hand, simple as that.

“Born?” I borrow his sharp approach. Last night, he learned every inch of my body, and I have been forthcoming with myself. Why’s he so guarded?

“London.”

My lips tense as I ask, “Raised?”

“Everywhere you could imagine.”

“Name some places,” I say through gritted teeth. Wow, I can be snappy too.

Victor’s irresistible chuckle makes me want to taste his taut abs and unzip his pants, placing a big wet kiss on his dick.

“Luxury, where were you born and raised?”

“Grew up in Harlem. I’m an only child, as you’re aware. I was deathly shy unless my song came on the radio. FYI, almost every other song was my song. Nobody could tell me I had a voice only a mother,” I take a deep breath, “could love. I was your typical awkward kid throughout school. Went to NYU, tried that.” Smiling fondly, I catch my second wind. “And I may have held every artsy major available before giving up. Victor, see how natural it is to speak?”

Even though Vic doesn’t reply, it’s clear I have all his attention.

Though I’m not a social butterfly, Victor draws me in. He listens without judgment as I share the longest relationship I was ever in with Arnold, whom I met in college. I can’t seem to stop talking, especially when Victor doesn’t stare at me like I should shut up. His response is refreshing. He . . . listens.

“We were having one of those lazy days with me drawing. I was an art major at the time.” My finger coasts over the lacquered counter I’m leaning on. “Arnold’s head in a book.”


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