Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
So when I reached down to pull his face up to me and felt the edge of his mask biting into my wrist, I yanked it off and sent it sailing across the room along with my own before tugging his face closer for another kiss.
But when a pair of warm, brown eyes met mine, I gasped, not with excitement but with something more like horror.
I knew those eyes. Had daydreamed about them, in fact.
I knew that face, too, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing it without a full beard before.
Because the stranger I was hooking up with… the man who’d already done a fair job of bringing me to my knees in wretched supplication… was none other than Thatcher Pennington.
My father’s friend.
The CEO of the Pennington Industries.
My boss.
Chapter Two
Thatcher
Look, I never claimed to be a saint.
The media had crafted a certain narrative about the Thatcher Pennington, and I’d let them run with it. They called me a self-made billionaire who lived a life of leisure. They said I loved social events and never missed a philanthropic gala. They decided I was a devoted father who’d been twice unlucky in love and that I must secretly pine for the woman who’d “heal” my “broken heart” and become the third Mrs. Pennington.
I’d let them run with these stories because I knew the truth… and it was nobody else’s business.
It was no one’s business that I was actively bisexual or that I’d rather slather myself in flesh-eating bacteria than ever get married again since at least the bacteria wouldn’t contest a prenup and try to take part of my company. It was no one’s business that my adult son was so determined to avoid me that he’d canceled our Christmas vacation.
It was no one’s business that I’d planned to distract myself from the end of yet another year in which my career was the most stable thing in my life by spending New Year’s Eve at home… or that I’d felt so restless and dissatisfied, I’d changed my plans at the last minute, spontaneously shaved the beard I’d worn for years, and arranged a hookup with a guy whose profile on the hookup app promised total anonymity and absolute submission.
And it was sure as fuck no one’s business that the guy had turned out to be so damn perfect—both taller and younger than I’d expected, with sun-streaked hair that reminded me of summer in the depths of a New York winter, skin so tender he moaned at the lightest touch, and a heady mix of submissive and defiant vibes that made my dick hard and my balls ache—that I’d found myself calling him baby and wondering how many times he’d let me take him before the night was over.
No, I was damn sure no one would ever find out about any of that.
Because for this one night, I was going to slake my lust on the handsome, pliant man in my arms, unleash every sordid fantasy I’d ever dreamed up, and tomorrow, no one would be the wiser about what the real Thatcher Pennington craved.
But then the man in my arms pulled back, opened his magnificent eyes for the first time without the concealing shadows of his blue-feathered mask in place… and gasped in horror. And with an icy-cold shock of recognition, I realized that my very secret, very anonymous hookup was actually neither.
“Reagan?” I breathed.
Jesus Christ.
Of all the fucking people fate could have sent to torment me… Reagan fucking Wellbridge?
Trent and Patricia’s son? Brantleigh’s friend? My goddamn employee, since I’d rashly offered the kid a low-level position as a mea culpa last August?
This was so disastrous on so many levels my mind scrambled to latch onto one. Warnings tumbled through my head like falling rocks: Danger! Steep drop ahead! Turn back!
My hands gripped his hip and his shoulder, wanting to shove him as far from me as possible… but I was so stunned I couldn’t even do that properly. With our lower bodies still entwined, all I did was set him off-balance so his shoulders hit the door and his cock pressed against the hard heat of my thigh, making us both gasp in unison.
Aquamarine eyes lifted to mine, glassy with lust, and for a crucial moment, I hesitated.
Fuck, those eyes did things to me.
They were the color of sea glass at the beach. Of precious stones. They shifted hue with the light and Reagan’s mood, revealing tantalizing glimpses of secrets in their depths.
I’d done a piss-poor job of ignoring those eyes last summer when I’d visited his parents in Honeybridge. For the first time in all the years since our families had become friendly, I’d caught myself staring at them—in the moments when I could force my gaze away from his perfectly rounded ass, his well-developed pecs, his prominent Adam’s apple, and his ever-present sexy smirk—and I’d gone out of my way to avoid talking to the man precisely to avoid a situation like this one.