Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Right, me. I think I might need a college course, three text books, and a tutor or five to pull that whole “seduction” thing off, and it would still take me a year to get it down. I mean the idea of me being this tempting seductress to a freaking billionaire is laughable. And I even thought about saying it in the interview with the people at The Agency, but I held my tongue. I mean what the hell do I know about seducing a man? Not to mention literally anything that comes after that? Bianca wasn’t wrong, I’ve never done a thing with a guy.
But then, I’m… different now. After The Agency interview, and after they accepted me, it was straight into their little “re-create Simone” factory. A new haircut, plucked brows, then shaved, trimmed, waxed, and moisturized all over. A crash course in smoky makeup that I’ve never worn. All week, I’ve been wearing incredible clothes I could never afford before, and I’ve been hanging out at a club with drinks that cost as much as two or three days of my normal food budget.
I feel the club music thump through me as I take a sip of the virgin mojito in my hands. The Agency got me into the club no problem, even with my being eighteen. But I’m not drinking. I mean I’ve barely drank before, and the night where I’m supposed to, well, do what I’m supposed to do, with him doesn’t sound like the best night to try being inebriated too.
Him.
I swallow, my eyes sliding back across the dark, smoky club until they land on him, sitting on a leather couch over in the private area. There are gorgeous women in tiny, crazy expensive club dresses on either side of him, and I blink in surprise at the rush of jealousy that burns hotly through me.
I watch as he tosses back another drink—what looks like vodka, on ice, and with three lemon slices. I file it away in my mental dossier on him, wondering if I’ll need to know his drink later.
…Later, when we… well, I haven’t actually thought that far. No, scratch that. I have thought that far. Many, many times. And every night this week when I’ve gone home to my solo apartment, I’ve thought about what comes next in far more detail. How could I not? I mean, just look at him.
My gaze drags from his drink, up his hand, over the arm of his perfectly tailored suit that shows off just enough of a stretch around his arms to indicate he’s got more muscles than you’d except from a billionaire hedge fund manager. I tease my eyes higher, across the stiff collar of his dress shirt, and then up to his face. And then, just like the hundred other times I’ve looked at him, a hot flush shivers through my body.
Because the man I’m supposed to seduce, and who’s… sperm I’m supposed to steal, is stone-cold gorgeous.
His name is Knox Carmichael. He has dark blond hair, piercing green eyes, and at thirty years old, is one of the youngest multibillionaires on earth. And like I said, he’s also staggeringly good looking. Sharp, chiseled, aristocratic features, but with this slightly gruff, ever-so-slightly roughed-around-the-edges feel to him that just gives him this edge of dangerous attraction. He’s the mistake you can’t wait to make.
…And mistake or not, it’s time.
I take a big gulp of my lime juice and sugar, as if the virgin cocktail has some sort of nerve-steeling alcohol in it, and I stand. My hands tremble as I smooth my dress, but I force myself to breathe as I turn and walk towards him. I know what the next part of this will mean. At the very least, doing something with a man I’ve never done before. At most, giving him my virginity. It’s a weird feeling, knowing that it’s on the table, and knowing that I have to be okay with that. Because the other thing on the table is one-hundred thousand dollars, and that can’t be ignored.
But then, the truth is, knowing that I may very well sleep with this man tonight, for my very first time, isn’t just something I “have to” be okay with. With Knox Carmichael, it’s almost an incentive. A dare. A tease.
My pulse thuds in my ears as I walk towards him, calming myself, forcing myself to breathe easy. At the velvet ropes to the VIP area, I flash a coy smile at the bouncer, just like the coaches at The Agency taught me this week, and instantly, I get right back. The big man winks at me as he unclips the velvet rope, and I’m stepping through when I feel his big hand on the small of my back.
“Listen sweet thing,” he purrs out. “This is the VIP area.”