Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 112701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Something about the way he says it throws me off. As though there’s hidden meaning in the words. My brain is too foggy at the moment to compute what he’s saying but also not saying.
“Sir?” I ask dumbly, unable to form a full sentence.
His hand drops from my elbow but lands just at the hem of my dress, connecting with bare skin. I heat under his touch, and it makes its way up my body to my cheeks.
“Charles,” he whispers, and my eyes crook in confusion. “Say my name, Raven.” His hand moves, running up my leg and dragging my dress with it.
I suck in a breath, unable to move. To think.
“Ch-Charles.”
"That’s right, Rae. My Rae of fucking sunshine. Say it again. Say my fucking name again.”
“Charles.”
Before I can say more or move out of his grasp, his lips crash against mine.
I stumble, knees going a bit slack. His free hand grabs my waist, holding me steady as his tongue begs entrance to my mouth.
My lips part willingly, moaning around the notes of oak and mint on his tongue.
A delectable mix of pure masculinity attacks my senses, rendering me completely helpless to stop this.
I’m lost in him, hands grabbing at his crisp, white shirt. Wanting—needing—more.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s passionate and raw.
A growl works its way up to his chest, and it only lights the fire more. We’re all hands and tongues, and I’m practically crawling up his body.
As quickly as it started, it comes to an abrupt stop.
Charles pulls away, chest heaving. His hands slam against the wall at my head, blocking me in. He stares down at me in a mix of lust, shock, and something darker. Something like anger.
“Did you plan this?” he spits, and my entire body goes rigid.
“W-What?”
“Did. You. Plan. This?” he grits through his teeth, leaning so close, I can hardly breathe.
“No. I . . . I told you I stayed to pitch to you.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “You stayed the night in the office to pitch to me? Just what were you going to offer up?”
“Yes,” I bark, growing more irritated by the second. “What exactly are you accusing me of, sir?” I bite.
He straightens, shrugging his shoulder. He grabs his glass and takes a long pull, draining it in one go.
“I guess I know how you managed such impressive endorsements.”
I gasp at his insinuation, anger thrumming through every synapse. “Are you accusing me of sleeping my way through my former positions?”
“I didn’t actually say that.”
My hand shoots out, landing against his cheek in a slap that can be heard around the office. His eyes widen, and his hand rises to his cheek.
Inside, I’m quaking, but externally, I stand tall, ready to defend my actions.
He was out of line. Way out of line.
“Let me be perfectly clear, sir,” I spit. “I earned every single one of those recommendations through hard work and grit. And I won’t allow some male chauvinist, arrogant asshole, who’s the product of familial nepotism, to belittle my hard work. And if those words are too big for your drunk ass tonight, I’ll be happy to say them to you again in the morning.”
“But this company is all I have,” he says sorrowfully. “I won’t let my sunshine take that away, too.”
I pull a face, confused by his ramblings.
“What are you talking about?”
He turns on his heel, making his way out of my office. I watch as he staggers down the hall.
He’s not just drunk. He’s emotionally wasted along with this. What the hell is wrong with him, and who the hell caused this mess?
I consider calling Shelby, but the last thing I want to do is bring her into this mess in the middle of the night. Something is very off with Charles, but I’m not afraid of him or his stupid ideas.
I stop at the vending machine and buy two bottled waters, then head to his office. He’s plopped in his chair, nodding off.
“Drink this,” I command, twisting the top from the first bottle and setting it in front of him.
He wakes and eyes me warily but does as I instruct, draining the contents. I open the next and slide that one in front of him, and he does the same.
“Do you have any ibuprofen or aspirin? You’ll want some for the headache you’re sure to have in the morning.”
He motions with his head toward his middle drawer. I open it to find a bottle, taking out two and handing them to him. He has a wet bar in his office, so I quickly fill up a tumbler with more water and hand it to him.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I . . . I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t deserve you. My life needs to stay dark and without a Rae of sunshine.”
My eyes narrow on him as he lowers his head to his desk. Within minutes, he’s out, as evidenced by the soft snoring.