Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“Well, I did. I wish I could have had them professionally done because you can see here how the shadows fall on her face.” She traces a finger across the model’s face. “I didn’t have the right lighting.”
“Next time we’ll get you a professional shoot, sugar. Your work deserves to be showcased with the best tools available to us.”
“We?” she asks faintly. She’s staring at me with an odd look on her face.
“What?”
She gives her head a quick shake. “Nothing. Just that sometimes I wish you were more of an asshole.”
“Oh, I am an asshole, believe me,” I say lightly, but I sense a wistfulness in Lexi, and she doesn’t smile.
Damn. She’s definitely getting attached. I shouldn’t have spent the night. I should stay away for a few days.
Except that idea literally makes me want to punch a wall.
Lexi
“What do you think of this one?” I prance out of the dressing cubicle in a fitted purple miniskirt, wide black belt and black cap-sleeved top that makes my boobs look amazing.
Bobby lounges on one of the benches in the dressing room, looking casually elegant in one of his designer suits. Shopping is foreplay, and I’m about two seconds away from dragging him into a cubicle and dropping to my knees to suck his cock because he bought everything I showed the slightest interest in, and more.
He gives me a heavy-lidded gaze. “I think, if I were God, I would ordain that this song be playing every time you entered into my visual field in a short skirt.”
I laugh, listening to hear what song played on the mall speakers. It’s “Sex and Candy” by Marcy Playground.
“Sweetheart, those legs ought to be illegal. In fact,” he motions to my outfit. “We’ll take those clothes, but you are not wearing them to your interview.”
“Oh yeah?” I strut slowly to where he sits. “What am I wearing to the interview?”
He smirks. “I’m not sure, but I think you already have something in mind. You just keep dragging me around to turn me on with your dress up show.”
I laugh. “I can’t get anything by you, can I?” At least he didn’t accuse me of working him for the clothes, which was also true, and I know he understands that perfectly.
“All right, baby, I’m almost out of cash.” He pulls out three hundred dollar bills. “Where do you want to spend these?”
“Shoe store,” I say without hesitation. I gesture at my outfit. “Should I get these?”
“Yes.” He rakes his gaze up and down me appreciatively. “I thought I already said so.”
“Sorry, boss.” I wink as I turn to strut back to the cubicle and change out of the clothes.
In the shoe department, I pick out a pair of wedge sandals and a pair of strappy platform heels. “How much is left?” I smile like a spoiled child after he pays for the clothes and shoes.
“Sixty bucks.” He folds the bills and slides them into my bra. “But I’m all shopped out. Let’s go, bambina.”
“Okay, boss.” I traipse beside him, giddy with the new purchases and the attention of my lover. I hook my arm through his. “May I make you dinner?”
He looks down at me, thoughtfully. When he hesitates, I brace against feeling rejected, but then he says, “Sure.”
We walk to his car, but he hesitates when he unlocks the door. “Why don’t you drive?”
“What?”
“Have you driven at all since your accident?”
“No,” I admit. My heart is already beating faster at the thought of it. It’s true I wasn’t scared riding in his car as a passenger today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t freak out if I get behind a wheel.
“Get in.” He waves me toward the driver’s seat. “I want you to drive. Let’s test your EMDR session.”
I climb in, feeling shaky. I adjust the seat and mirrors, trying to get everything just perfect, as if it would make driving easier. Taking a deep breath, I start the Porsche, check for cars in the mirror and pull out into the stream of traffic. Neither of us speak for the next ten minutes as I navigate my way through the city streets, but after a while, I relax my hands on the steering wheel.
I nod. “It’s okay,” I say on an exhale. “I’m doing okay.”
I experience no panic, and with each mile I drive, it gets easier. By the time I pull into the underground parking garage at my building, I feel more confident about driving. I find a parking spot and turn off the car, turning to grin at Bobby. “Just like riding a bike,” I declare.
“Good job, baby. I’m proud of you.”
Pleasure blooms in my chest at his praise. I take his arm feeling half-giddy with affection.
When we arrive at the apartment, he follows me into the kitchen. “May I help?”
“Do you cook?” It’s weird how little I know about the man who occupies so many of my thoughts.