Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I laugh. "I've never peed outside."
"But you've done the rest?"
"Yes."
"All illegal," he says. "No big deal."
"That's easy for you to say."
"It is," he admits, clinking his glass with mine. "I'm practically aiding and abetting a criminal right now."
"But—"
He cuts me off. "I don't live my life by someone else's rules. I'm my own boss, my own judge and jury, my own authority. The government calls you an adult, and expects you to pay taxes, but they can't let you enjoy a glass of wine to unwind? I don't agree. I don't care what they say."
"Yet you won't drink and drive."
"That's not because it's illegal," he says. "It's because I'd like to live to see tomorrow so I can take full advantage of another day. I have purely selfish motives. I'm a selfish man."
"You don't seem very selfish to me."
"Ah, but I am. I'm selfish, and possessive, and I have a tendency to be a little controlling… and impatient… and I'm a bit of a neat freak."
"I've noticed—the latter, anyway. I don't know about the rest, but you definitely are a neat freak. Your house is spotless. How often do you have someone clean it?"
"Never," he says. "I clean it myself."
That surprises me, and I think he has to be joking, but his expression is serious. I just can't imagine him on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor once a week. "Why?"
"I don't like people coming into my house. I don't trust them."
The drive into Manhattan flies by, as the champagne once again seems to evaporate right before my eyes. By the time we make it to the party, I'm a little lightheaded, and his hands are already doing crazy things to me. Just a simple stroke of my arm, his thumb caressing the clothed skin, seems to set my entire body on fire.
The fundraiser is at a swanky hotel on Park Avenue. The limo drops us off and Naz puts his arm around me, pulling me close to him. I feel him press a kiss to my hair before he whispers, "You're going to do great."
I hope he's speaking the truth.
He hands over our tickets and the second we're through the door, Naz's face lights up, his dimples out in full force, as he greets people by name. He introduces me as simply 'Karissa' as we make our way through a sea of large round tables to one toward the center of the room. Name cards are placed at every seat, and I spot his easily. Ignazio Vitale. Beside it, the card also bears his name with the word 'guest' beneath it.
He pulls the chair out for me, and I sit down, eyeing the other cards at our table but not recognizing any of the names. The seats fill with people Naz seems to know. He introduces me to them, but they pay me no mind, too engrossed in striking up conversation with my date.
My date.
It sounds so weird.
A waiter fills my glass with champagne when he reaches our table, not asking my age, not even hesitating as he looks at me. I pick up my glass and sip it right away, earning a chuckle from Naz. He puts his arm around me, and leans closer, nuzzling into my neck, kissing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "my beautiful little jailbird."
Although it surprises me, nobody bats an eyelash at his playful display of affection. I wonder if it's because he does this often, if he brings women around and shows them off to these people, until I realize nobody's looking. Nobody's watching, their eyes everywhere but on the two of us, like they're purposely giving him privacy.
A political fundraiser is everything I thought it would be, yet nothing like I expected. There are tuxedos, and speeches, and a few snooty people I peg as politicians, but most of the crowd is relaxed. The food is fancy, the champagne expensive, and the people engrossing. The atmosphere seems to flow in waves: the first course prim and proper, the second a little more lax, the third casual, and by the forth everyone's chatting and laughing like old friends.
Or maybe everyone's just drunk by then.
"Dance with me," Naz says, throwing his napkin down on the table as he stands. A band is playing some sort of slow melody on a stage across the room, the floor in front of them clear of tables as couples dance the night away. I shake my head, but he doesn't notice, or else he doesn't care, as he pulls me to my feet and leads me that way.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I say as soon as we're on the dance floor.
"Come on." He pulls me into his arms. "Don't tell me you can't dance."
"Oh, I can dance," I say. "I just can't dance to this."
It sounds like elevator music.
He chuckles, placing his hands on my hips to draw me even closer to him. "Just follow my lead."
I wrap my arms around his neck as my fingers tinker with the wayward curls at his nape. It's easy, mindless, as we really just stand there and sway. It lasts a good minute before I let out a deep sigh. "Okay, this is boring."
As soon as I say it, the song changes, the tempo picking up. Naz swings me around, twirling me, and I nearly fall on my ass without a warning. Every step he takes makes me stumble, but he doesn't seem to mind, and I'm just too drunk to care what anybody thinks… anybody except for him.
He's all that matters.
I'm swaying and twirling, staggering and laughing, tripping over his feet and he just laughs along with me. He dips me once, dips me so low my feet come out from beneath me and I land flat on my back. He bends down, smirking as he yanks me to my feet again, as a male voice cuts through the music behind me. "Mind if I cut in?"
The voice is rough, not gritty in the sexy way, but more like grating sandpaper against sensitive skin. I turn quickly, seeing a vaguely familiar man, a man I've never met before, but I've seen him in pictures and on the television.