Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 97574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
She'd look at me differently. If only in a damn, Indie, I didn't know you had it in you way.
And she'd look at Ty differently too.
Like he's some depraved pervert. Which is a compliment, coming from her.
But maybe like he's a monster too. I don't know.
I'm over-thinking things. It doesn't matter what Sienna thinks of my desires. It's none of her fucking business.
And this—
My cell buzzes again.
Ty.
Ty: You're late.
I am. It's six on the dot.
Extra disobedience. Unplanned.
I can apologize, admit I'm nervous, ask for mercy.
He might give it to me.
But I don't want mercy.
I don't want a single scrap of mercy.
I swallow hard. Slide my cell into my jeans. Ask myself what the fuck I'm doing one more time. For good measure.
You're thinking with your cunt, Indigo.
Sienna isn't the only one acting like a guy.
This is what men do. They think with their dicks.
I am.
And I don't care.
I slip into the building. Nod to the security guard. He recognizes me. Waves me through.
I slip into the shiny silver elevator. Slide my key into the lock.
Ty lives in the penthouse. You need a key to access the elevator. Even though it opens in a separate room.
That's security.
Safety from everything outside the apartment.
Not from him. Or how badly I want him. Or how much power I'm willing to give him.
Deep breath.
Slow exhale.
The shiny silver doors close. I stare at my reflection, trying to project confidence.
I'm wearing a thong under my jeans.
A bra under my top.
No harness.
And I'm late.
I'm not following any of his instructions.
I'm not giving him a choice.
My fingers curl around the metal safety bar. What if I'm wrong? If this isn't what he wants?
This is the one place we make sense. If I'm not reading him right, if I'm pushing too far, asking for too much, asking for things he doesn't want—
If I can't handle the things he does want—
The elevator dings.
My heart thuds against my chest. It's not role playing. It's not the scene.
I am scared.
Of his reaction.
Of losing him.
Losing this.
The shiny silver doors slide open.
My shoes tap the floor. Simple black wedges. Not the cheap ones I bought for work. A designer brand Paloma selected.
More expensive than the rest of my outfit.
More expensive than anything I bought before this.
The tap echoes around the narrow hallway. The dozen steps feel like a thousand.
My heartbeat echoes between my ears.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
There. I stop at his door.
This is it. My last chance to back out.
I search my head for some bit of sense. Enough to convince me to turn around, walk into the elevator, take the subway back to my apartment.
But I'm out of sense.
My body is too tuned to this.
It's been so long since I've really given it what it wants. I can't stop now.
I knock.
Ty makes me wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
A minute.
Two.
Finally, he opens the door.
He's standing there, tall and proud and strong.
An angel in the soft blue light.
A devil in a designer suit.
A madman or a monster, maybe.
My monster.
"You're late." His voice is sharp. Curt.
"I know."
His eyes meet mine. He pauses. Gives me a chance to explain, expand, ask for mercy.
I don't.
He continues. "Come in. Close the door behind you."
I step inside. Push the door closed.
The slam echoes around the wide, open room.
It's the same apartment as last time.
The same soft leather couch. The same sliding glass door. The same hard dining table.
The same hallway leading to his bedroom.
He moves into the kitchen. Fills two glasses with water. Brings one to me.
My fingers brush his as I take it.
My body catches fire. That's how turned on I am.
That's how badly I need him.
I might come just from the sound of his voice.
I'm not sure that's possible, but right now, it feels like it.
"Drink," he says.
"Water?"
"Yes. You're going to need your stamina."
Fuck. I take a long sip. Then another. Another.
He watches me finish the glass. Takes it. Places both—my empty one, his half-drank one—on the kitchen counter.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asks.
"We're engaged."
"Yes." He chuckles, breaking character. "Why you're here tonight?"
"So you can fuck me."
"So I can have my way with you," he corrects.
My body whines. This has to end with him fucking me. I need him inside me. In a way I've never needed anything.
He must know that.
He closes the distance between us, wraps his arm around my waist, pulls me into a soft, slow kiss.
"It might be tender." His fingertips trace the waistband of my jeans. His other hand goes to my hair. He pulls me into a hard, fast kiss, and releases me with a sigh. "It might be rough." He brings his palm to my ass. Pulls me closer. So I can feel his hard-on. "It might be nothing."
"But—"
"You're mine. To use however I see fit."
Fuck.
"Go to the bedroom. Now."
"If I don't?"
"I won't fuck you." His voice is hard. Rough.
He means that.
Whatever else happens here, he means that.