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)
A familiar black brow lifted over the top of the man’s Roman warrior mask, and his plush lips set in a firm, unsmiling line that made my pulse race with arousal… and then with a sudden wave of affection as he handed me my favorite drink.
“I’m very interested in games,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Especially the kind where my sexy husband teases me by wearing absolutely nothing under his tuxedo.” His hand snuck down to brush across my ass, reminding me I’d had to toss my ruined boxer briefs in the trash after Thatcher had made me come in my pants like a teenager in our private elevator earlier.
I let out a laugh. “Yes, I’m a naughty, naughty boy.”
“Mm, thought so.” His hand brushed my pants again, only this time, it was the fabric over my half-hard cock.
I sucked in a breath. “You’re playing with fire,” I warned softly, glancing around at the throngs of high-profile people surrounding us in the ballroom.
“Room 5316, thirty minutes,” he said roughly, ignoring my warning. With two long, sure fingers, he slid a key card into the breast pocket of my tuxedo jacket, then leaned forward until I was wrapped in the scent of his cologne—smoky and deliciously familiar. “If you’re late, I’ll find another plaything.”
“Liar,” I breathed against the side of his face. The rumble of his laugh filled my chest with warmth.
“Maybe. But I have plans for you tonight. This time last year, I didn’t get to do everything I wanted.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled his presence, suddenly not giving a shit what anyone around us thought. I’d been at public events like this with Thatcher often enough in the past year to know he didn’t have a shred of modesty when it came to being affectionate with me in front of others. It never failed to make me feel valued and adored.
His arm wrapped around my waist. “I love you,” he murmured before pressing a firm kiss to my temple. “I need to say goodbye to Brant, but after that, I expect you to meet me in the room and let me do dirty, dirty things to your sexy body for hours on end.”
“Y-yes, sir,” I whispered.
Those two magic words seemed to seal the deal. The beautiful man in the Roman warrior mask nodded once, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
I shuddered out a breath and pushed up my mask in an attempt to provide my lungs with oxygen. Thirty minutes, he’d said? My phone showed it was 11:02 p.m., less than an hour until the champagne corks popped, and suddenly, I was even more excited with my plans for ringing in the New Year.
I opened my phone, adjusted the settings, pulled my mask down, and posted a quick, unedited selfie—wild grin, skewed bow tie, and all. Remember, NYE sets the tone for the year! I captioned as my body tingled with anxious anticipation. Don’t waste time being polite. *champagne emoji*
I’d barely hit Post when a cloud of Chanel No. 5 swirled around me, and before I could adequately brace myself, Patricia Wellbridge appeared before me like the ghost of New Year’s Past, fanning herself with her mask.
“Reagan, my darling! Where is that handsome husband of yours?” My mother’s eyes scanned the room. “I could have sworn he was right here.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant, but when I opened them, she was very much still there, in full jeweled-and-feathered regalia, blocking my escape yet again, damn it, proving that no matter how much some things might change, other things never would.
“He had to go find Brantleigh. He’s flying back to LA first thing in the morning to start his new job.”
She waved a delicate hand in the air, her large diamond ring catching the light in a blaze of sparkles. “At least he’s finally settling down. I think you’re a good influence on him.”
I bit back a laugh. “More like he’s finally gotten his own shit together after realizing how nice he had it on his parents’ dime.” The truth was, I was happy for Brant. He was still a complete asshole, but at least he was beginning to take some responsibility for his own life, and he’d been generous enough to fly to New York to spend some holiday time with his father. As long as he treated Thatcher with respect, I was content.
“I was hoping Thatcher would offer to dance with me since your father has two left feet,” my mother continued, still peering around the room in search of my trophy husband. She’d gotten too used to using his high profile to her advantage this past year, and it grated on me. Thatcher himself was gracious as hell, but I was tired of feeling like my parents valued the man on my arm more than their own son.