Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?”
I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt.
She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy.
“I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed.
I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one.
And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating.
“I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing.
Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.”
I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women.
And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation.
“Who are you and why are you here?”
She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck.
I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk.
She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.”
I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?”
“Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts.
“That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her.
I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for?
She swallows and nods. “Yeah.”
“You follow a guy here?”
“No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.”
I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off.
“Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.”
“How is that your karma?”
“Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.”
I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?”
“Mine.”
“Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.”
Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it.
Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep.