Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
“Not when you get back,” I say. “Now. Tonight. Just tonight.”
“You say that, but I sense--”
“That I’ve never done this before.” I press my hands to his chest. “Do you make a habit of this kind of thing?”
He laughs. “I’m not a manwhore. Stop calling me a manwhore.”
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask. “Because you left me down there and keep giving me opportunities to change my mind.”
“And you took five full minutes to come up.”
“Do you want me to leave?” I demand again.
His hand caresses my neck, his mouth lowering, breath warm on my lips, lingering there a moment before his tongue strokes deep and he kisses me, a deep, drugging, over too soon kiss, before he says, “Do I taste like I want you to leave?”
“You taste like trouble,” I say, the pure need I feel for him, when I’ve disallowed myself that feeling for so long, is dangerous, and yet addictive.
“I am,” he assures me. “But that’s my job. You are not my job. You’re—”
“A one-night stand,” I say, before I can stop myself, before I let him say something more that makes me forget that this is my Cinderella story, and Cinderella has a night. Just a night. My Prince is later, if ever. My glass slipper is my mom living, not dying.
“You’re Lori,” he says, brushing his lips over mine, and with that, he’s torn down that protective wall I’ve just placed between me and him. He’s made sure he knows who I am rather than allow it to be about what I am. It shakes me, and arouses me, and when I might turn and leave, because it shakes me all over again, he kisses me once more. God, how he kisses me, a deep, drugging, curl my toes kiss that leaves me breathless when his lips part mine and he releases me to shrug out of his jacket.
I am all about touching Cole, ready for my fingers, and my tongue, to explore this man, every which way, but I have learned from my past, from another powerful man. A man that was a mistake, but I learn from my mistakes. I know when to push, pull, and hold back in ways I once did not, and so, for now, I wait on Cole. For now, I just enjoy watching him, observing him, admiring the flex of his muscles beneath his fitted white shirt as he neatly folds his jacket and sets it on the arm of the chair. It’s the message I was waiting on, the read on him, that I understand easily: He’s all about control and no matter how much I have declared it to be mine, this man is intense. He’s powerful. He’s demanding. The kind of man who will demand, take, push my limits. The kind I would run from, if he had my name, because somewhere down the road, he could be trouble. But I’m in control no matter what happens tonight, because there is no tomorrow.
Which is exactly why when he reaches for his tie, as much as I want to help him take it off, to press my hand to his chest, I do not. That would tell him how wet I am right now with anticipation, and I am. How hard and tight my nipples are pressed against the bra that I know will soon be gone, replaced by his hands. Because I’m not giving him that knowledge. I’m not giving him control.
He folds the tie, just like he did the jacket and once he’s neatly set it on the arm rest, he straightens and fixes me in a blue-eyed stare that says, “Take off your jacket.”
My sex clenches with that silent command because despite my designed control tonight, some part of me is ridiculously aroused by the idea of his control. Some part of me also knows that the more I challenge him, the more he will demand. I realize then that there is more to this night than me simply wanting an escape. There is me craving the battle of wills with a man like this one, the adrenaline rush of battling an equal, and winning, or at least, not falling. For the first time in what feels like forever, Cole is giving me that rush and I had no idea how much I needed it.
And so, I push back. I don’t take off my jacket. I kick off my shoes instead, my toes curling in the soft pile carpet beneath the table. In an instant, I’ve won. I make him come to me. In one stride, he’s in front of me, but he doesn’t touch me, which is his power play. He stands there, a sway together from touching, and I have no doubt that he knows he’s suffocating me with the anticipation of that touch, the spicy, masculine, perfect scent of him, assaulting my senses.