Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
I didn’t know why she was doing what she was doing. All I knew was that when I came in her mouth, when her lips were wrapped around me, wet and inviting, I stopped thinking, I stopped hurting, and I stopped being mad.
The best antidote to love must be pleasure.
She pulled away, then clawed her way up to me, her fingers all over my chest, leaving marks. My cock was still half-mast, damp from her mouth and my cum. She kissed me hard, and I let her.
“Your turn, bro.” She grinned into our kiss.
“Fair.” I pushed her against the marble counter. The back of her head knocked over a few cereal boxes, and they rained down on us. I was between her legs in no time. I’d watched enough porn to know what I was doing, and by the quivering thighs wrapped around my ears, I knew I’d made her come.
“Just remember I don’t do feelings.” She squeezed my head between her legs.
“Way ahead of you in the sociopathic department.” I bit her inner thigh. “Mark my words, Grace. No matter what happens, a part of me will always, always want to ruin you.”
CHAPTER TEN
ARSÈNE
Four months later
“Darling, don’t forget to email Makayla back about the guest list.” Grace is standing at our apartment door, checking her pocket mirror for invisible lipstick smudges.
I never thought I’d find myself discussing the merits of beige and gray as a color scheme for a three-hour event, but life’s good at throwing curveballs at you, I suppose.
“Forget? This will be the highlight of my day.” I emerge from our bedroom, buttoning my dress shirt.
Grace is going to Zurich for another weekend of nonstop work. She rarely turns on her phone when she is there. I loathe it when I can’t reach her. Which is why I’m heading out to meet Christian and Riggs at the New Amsterdam tonight. Time passes quicker when you drown in enough alcohol to fill an Olympic pool. “I’ll email her tonight.”
“Tell her I don’t want to work with the flower shop she recommended. The one she claims Catherine and Michael used?” She is referring to Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas like they live downstairs. “I read on Yelp that one delivery arrived at the venue with the flowers completely frozen. Oh, and she was supposed to send me the candle options. I hate to think she dropped the ball. Really, is it too much to ask for professionalism in this city?” She scrunches her nose.
“I won’t forget.” I lean down and kiss her long and hard, my mouth moving over hers as I add, “And if she drags her feet again, I’ll show her the wrath of a thousand Corbin men.”
She flings her arms over my shoulders, returning the sloppy kiss.
My hands slide down her back and cup her ass. “How about another quickie for the road?”
“Ugh. I wish I had time.” She disconnects from me, flipping her phone in my direction so I can look at the screen. There is a notification letting her know her Uber driver is waiting downstairs.
“Rain check?” She grins.
“I’ll hold you to it.” I kiss her again. “Have a safe flight.”
She lingers, smiling at me with something that almost looks like wistfulness.
“You know . . .” She trails off, her shoulders slumping. It’s a rare sight. Grace is usually a stickler for good posture. “I really do love you, Arsène. I know you don’t believe it. Not all the time, anyway. But it’s true. I’m glad we chose each other. I’m glad you won.”
My whole body beams. It is pathetic, how much I crave her approval. This must be the most pitiful form of mommy issues I’ve yet to witness.
“Hey, Grace?” I tug at her dark ponytail, winking. “I believe you.”
“You do?” She brightens.
I nod.
“Forever yours.” She kisses the side of my mouth.
“Forever yours.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “What would you like for your welcome-home meal? Thai or Burmese?”
Grace likes to return home to find the dining table set and a warm bath drawn for her.
She turns around, wheeling her suitcase out to the foyer, then stops, flashing me a glorious smile full of white straight teeth. “Surprise me.”
The knocks on my door are persistent, yet oddly apologetic.
Like the person behind it doesn’t want me to open. And for good reason. Not many people live to tell the tale of how they woke me up at ass-crack o’clock without notice.
What time is it, anyway?
Patting for my nightstand clock in the darkness, I bang on its head. The time says 3:18 a.m. Christ. Who the fuck decides three in the morning is a legitimate time for a social call?
Wait a minute. I actually do know someone as careless and reckless. And I’m happy to punch his face all the way to Antarctica for this disturbance.