Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Of course,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m not a monster.”
“That’s what all monsters say,” I murmur, trailing her. My hand cups her elbow as she stops abruptly, my body almost colliding with hers.
“Is this a Rothko?” She turns her gaze from the painting, sucking in a sharp breath as she becomes aware of how close I am. Every inch of my body is suddenly alert, liquid fire coursing through my veins at her proximity.
“That would be some level of tax evasion, wouldn’t it?” Or money laundering, depending on your aim.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Her voice is as soft as an April shower.
“Why don’t you tell me. Give me your professional opinion.”
“I don’t remember telling you I worked in an art gallery,” she says, turning to face me.
“Didn’t you?” I contemplate telling her this isn’t the only thing I know about her.
“If I had, you’d also know my expertise is in making coffee and photocopying.” Her gaze drops to my lips, and I want so much to pull her against me, let her feel what her nearness does to me. I slide my hands into my pockets instead. “How did the car end up at my place of work?”
“Magic.”
“I know you didn’t deliver it because the receptionist wasn’t all a flutter at the sight of you.”
“Say that again.” I pitch my words as though I hadn’t heard.
“The receptionist usually reports—” Her lips quirk. I suppose my own expression must give the game away.
“Do you think I’m handsome?” I find myself purring, causing her to shake her head in faux disbelief before glancing back at the art.
“It looks like a Rothko, and that one”—she points at the wall behind me—“looks like a Matisse.”
“Do you like what you see?” She glances back at the art, a tiny pinch between her brows. “Because looks can be deceiving,” I caution.
“That’s true.” Stepping back and ignoring my warning, she reaches for the handle of the nearest door. “For instance, this looks like a door to a bedroom, but for all I know, a sex dungeon could lie behind door number one.”
“It is actually a bedroom,” I confirm, stepping closer. “My bedroom, as a matter of fact.”
“Ah, then it’s a bedroom with a spanking bench,” she answers with a cheeky grin that tells me she’s not quite psychic. “It was a gag gift from your friends. You hang your pants over it in the evening, and that’s the only action it ever gets.” She laughs as though the picture she paints is ridiculous as her hand depresses the handle, and she almost falls into the room.
“Oh.” The soft sound could be in response to the way my hand wraps around her arm to stop her from falling, but I don’t think so.
“Friends share their secrets, don’t they?” My voice is soft, my intentions dark. Intentions that, I remind myself, can lead nowhere.
“I … yes, I suppose they do.” She presses herself backward against the open door, her gaze landing on items in the room before fluttering away again. The classic yet modern-style four-poster bed, the tactile walls, the velvet accents, and rococo mirrors strategically placed on the walls. I try to see it through her eyes, the sinuous-shaped chaise built for fucking. The low velvet stool next to it. At first glance, the room is sumptuous. A sensory feast. But it’s also a room for feasting in.
How long will it take her to realize?
“That’s an unusual chair.” Her eyes slide to mine briefly, then back. “It looks a little like a birdcage.” A gilded half birdcage. The seat is forest green and plush, the hard metal arms cushioned by the same. Golden handcuffs with velvet restraints to match, hanging from the top. But I’m not really looking at the chair. I’m looking at her. Watching her eyes darken and the way her teeth press briefly to her plush bottom lip. I thought it might be the chaise that would capture her imagination, but this is an interesting insight. An interesting, useless interest.
“It’s a chair for little birds.” My words are husky and my fingers aching to touch her. “For good little birds who like to be tied.” Unable to stop myself, I press my mouth into her hair. I curl my hand around her hip briefly, so briefly, as I reach for the door handle at her back. “And, oh, how they do sing.”
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes like midnight, she doesn’t immediately notice I’m pulling the door closed. Pulling her body into mine.
“No spanking bench. I’m afraid I’m a traditionalist. I prefer to use my knee.” The soft wisps of her hair move with my breath.
“Your knee,” she repeats, and it’s almost as though I can see her thoughts bouncing like stones down that slippery hill.
“Yes. What do you think?”
“About your knee?”
“The room,” I pitch my words lightly, smile, too. “Friend.”