Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I tap my glass against his. Bring the drink to my lips. Take a small sip.
Sweet, spicy, expensive. I'm not sure how I can tell, but I can.
Expensive. And really fucking good.
I take another sip. Let the bourbon warm my cheeks, tongue, throat.
"You like it?" His eyes fix on me. My eyes. Then my lips. He watches as I swallow hard.
"I do. Thank you."
"I'll send you a bottle."
"That isn't necessary."
"Are you asking me not to?"
"No." I finish my drink. Set the glass on his desk. It's sturdy. Enormous. Expensive.
"You don't have to tiptoe with me. If you don't want something you can say it. You won't hurt my feelings."
"What if I say I don't want you? Or any time with you? Or any part of your body?"
"That would be a lie."
I swallow hard. "What if I did?"
"I'd say you're fucked, because you just agreed to thirty days on my terms."
"True. I guess they start now. According to the contract." Seven fifteen. It ends in thirty days at seven fifteen. Exactly thirty days.
"Are you already counting minutes?" His voice shifts to a playful tone. "Maybe you do despise me."
"No, I'm just…"
"Nervous?"
"Yeah." It's not like I'm hiding it. "I've never…" Signed away my freedom. Slept with a man. Seen a man naked in person. Kissed someone who set me on fire. The list is too long.
He gives me a slow once-over. "We are going to celebrate." He finishes his drink. Sets his glass next to mine. "Dinner at a private club."
"Let me guess? We're taking a limo." I try to lighten the mood, but it's not the mood that's tense. It's me. This is terrifying.
He half-smiles. "You object?"
"It's a nice day."
"It's—what is it kids say? Hot as balls."
"Am I a kid?"
"You're eighteen."
"And you're—"
"Thirty-six," he says.
And that only makes me crave him more. What does that say about me? And why don't I care? "What did they say? When you were a kid?"
"I stick with hot."
"It is. But it's still nice."
"You want to walk somewhere?"
I nod.
"I know a place nearby. Not as nice as the one uptown."
"No?"
"It will be harder to make you come." He offers his hand. "Still nice."
"Oh. Is that… the plan?”
Ian's laugh is soft. Easy. "No, vixen. You'll have to earn that."
Chapter Seventeen
Eve
As far as I know, the kids, meaning my peers, do not say hot as balls. Or amazeballs. Or holy shitballs.
Really, I don't know anyone using expressions about balls. Beyond the usual. What balls. Look at the huevos on that guy. That takes cojones.
The ball and dick centric slang of the teenage boy.
But holy shitballs, this place is crazy.
A restaurant on the top floor. Glass walls, high ceilings, balconies in every direction.
The hostess leads us straight to the balcony. One looking up to Midtown. A couch against the wall. A coffee table in front of it. Two armchairs on each side.
No way to see anything around the corner.
No way for someone around the corner to see anything. Not on the couch.
Better than a secluded booth.
Plenty of privacy for making me come. Not that I want Ian to make me come. I mean, I do. In an abstract way.
And a very visceral way.
I want to climb into his lap, tug at his tie, throw my head back as he slips his hand between my legs.
Ahem.
I take a seat on the soft couch. Press my legs together. Smooth my skirt. This is a new dress. Nicer than anything from H&M or Dolls Kill. But not in the same league as this place.
I swallow hard as I take a menu from the hostess.
She hands another to Ian. Smiles that serene customer service smile I know so well. "The usual, Mr. Hunt?"
He nods. "Thank you."
"I'll be back with your drinks in a few minutes." She says it with an implication.
Like she knows we might use our privacy for illicit activities. Or maybe like she wants to be the one engaging in illicit activities with him.
He takes a seat at the other end of the couch. It leaves the middle cushion between us.
To make me comfortable? Or for some reason I don't understand?
I don't like the space. I want to be next to him. To feel the warmth of his body against mine. But I'm not ready to admit that. It's too overwhelming.
I've never wanted someone this much. And certainly not someone with such murky intentions.
No, I'm overthinking it.
He wants to fuck me. It's not complicated. He's not Prince Charming. He's a rich man so interested in virginity he's willing to pay six figures for it.
That's the story that makes sense. Even if it fails to explain everything.
"I think she likes you." I skim the menu. Grass fed fillet mignon. Seared sea bass. Sea urchin sashimi. Expensive, fancy, hard to find. Enticing.
"She likes how well I tip." He sets his menu on the table.