Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
We push to our feet as he joins us, but he’s focused on only me, lowering his head as he asks, “Well?”
“Are you asking if I’m going to sign the contract?”
“I am. What did you think?”
“According to Harper, it’s a good deal I should sign.”
His brows dip at the realization I have not said I will actually sign, and for good reasons. We have to talk about the personal side of all of this. It’s complicated. We’re complicated. His gaze shifts to Harper. “Thank you for doing this.”
“Of course,” she says. “I was happy to help. I’m going to head upstairs, but, Sofia, if you need me,” she offers me a card, “that has my cell on it, but get a new attorney. I think we can be fast friends, and I don’t want it muddied up. I have someone in mind when you’re ready.”
The way Ethan and I have muddied up business as well, I think. “Thank you so much, Harper. And as for the fast friends. I agree.”
She smiles and rounds the table, patting Ethan on the back as she says, “I approve,” and walks away.
Ethan’s attention is immediately returned to me. “Why aren’t you signing the contract?”
“Business and pleasure don’t mix, right? And Ethan, we’re—”
“Good,” he supplies. “Which has no impact on that contract. We’ve talked about this.”
“Doesn’t it?”
He captures my hips and walks me in closer. “No, it does not. You’re signing the contract.” His words are pure command, and while that works for me just fine when we’re naked, we are not, and they do not, not in this situation.
“Look, Ethan—”
He surprises me by cupping my face and kissing me. “You’re signing the contract. Come on.” He captures my hand. “We’re going back to the hotel room.”
Where we’ll get naked, and he will absolutely be the one in control.
Chapter Forty
Ethan captures my hand as we exit to the street, the growing intimacy between us downright palpable as he guides me toward the SUV waiting on us just outside Starbucks. I feel Ethan in every possible way, hyperaware of him, his very presence awakening my senses in a way no other man has ever done. Perhaps up until now, the reason my love life was so lacking was simply that I hadn’t met anyone who affected me even a tiny fraction of the way Ethan does.
The driver opens the rear door for us, and Ethan’s right there, guiding me into the vehicle and following me inside, and already, we’re close again, our legs molded together. The pretense of fucking behind doors, and nothing else, is clearly gone, and it’s hard for me to process the shift. One minute we were sitting across from each other at a bar table, bantering in a confrontational way, the next we were naked, and not much later, we’re headed toward what feels like a relationship. I can’t quite get my head around that, and I’m not sure how that would even work.
He lives in Paris. I live in Colorado.
He’s worth an insane amount of money. No one would bother to define my wealth by money.
He runs companies. I just try to run my life the best I can.
His cellphone rings, and I watch as he removes it from his pocket, and “Senior” flashes on the screen. There’s a noticeable tension in Ethan as he punches decline. A few seconds pass and a text pings. His jaw clenches as he hits the message retrieval and reads the communication. I swear his teeth all but grind together.
He types a reply and then slides his phone into his pocket.
I don’t think that message was work-related. I think it was about what happened in the restaurant with his brother and Anna, but I can’t be sure. And I don’t know him well enough to ask questions. Or maybe I do. I’m just not comfortable overstepping. Instead, I simply spread my fingers over his thigh where my hand rests, the hard muscle of his leg flexing beneath my touch; the freedom between us to allow my action is something new and thrilling.
He reacts, covering my hand with his, and when my eyes meet his, the warmth that spreads between us is downright addictive. How did this man go from my enemy to this? He reaches up and strokes a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear, the touch tender and downright shiver-inducing.
“God, woman,” he murmurs softly, and he leans in and brushes his lips over mine, the caress of our mouths sending warmth spreading low in my belly, my nipples puckering. But this is so much more than a physical reaction. There is something intense about my connection to this man that reenforces how dangerous the mix of business and pleasure is between us, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m tormented by the idea of it. I want the opportunity for my brand. I want him. How can those two things really succeed together?