Total pages in book: 172
Estimated words: 157460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Why the hell hadn’t he kept her in his dream? That would have been the intelligent thing to do, so he could have her night after night. He groaned, his cock hard as a rock all over again. He went still. That was fucking impossible. His cock didn’t react to anything without his express permission. He controlled his body at all times. He didn’t have dreams, certainly not wet dreams.
Hating to face the day and give up on his private dancer dream, knowing he’d never get that one back, he forced his body to move, to turn over. The first thing that came into his view when he opened his eyes was his nightstand and the wad of money on it. He froze. Staring—just staring. He didn’t leave money around. Not when there was a party. Okay, never. He stashed cash in a drawer for easy access, but he never left it out in the open.
Keeping his eyes on it, afraid it might come alive and bite him, he sat up slowly, the sheet tangling the one leg he still had covered. Kicking, he reached for the cash and peeled back the bills. Yeah. Over a thousand. His mythical tip. His dream had been so real, not only was her fragrance—pink plumeria, Egyptian musk and ginger—lingering in the room, but he had her money right there in the palm of his hand.
Player forced himself to look around. Candles burned all the way to nothing were scattered on every surface. He suddenly had a vision of dancing lights flickering over Zyah’s undulating abdomen, her swaying hips and graceful arms. The flames had projected her figure onto the wall so that her moving hands were mesmerizing. He’d had not only his private dancer, but a shadow dancer as well. The moment had been beautiful, unique and all for him. She had smiled, her face lighting up, and his entire body had come to life all on its own.
He shook his head, not daring to believe she was real, even with the money in his hand. Zyah was a dream. Women like her didn’t exist. An exotic dancer, mysterious and beautiful, giving herself to him so completely, surrendering everything. Her mouth. Pure fire. Her tight pussy, hot as hell, a fucking inferno surrounding his cock and squeezing like a vise, milking him dry. Those eyes of hers staring into his as if he were someone real to her, someone worthwhile.
“No, this can’t be happening. Tell me I didn’t blow it this big.” He whispered his plea to the universe and then forced himself to look down at the floor, because if he actually stuck his dick in a woman, he wouldn’t do it without wearing a glove. Not ever. He would protect her and himself.
He groaned again, and this time not in a good way. The evidence lay everywhere. Filled condoms tied with knots scattered all over the floor as if he’d carelessly dropped them and grabbed the next one. They were everywhere, like the candles, condemning him. One by the wall. He remembered pushing her up against the wall, unable to wait to get into her, although he’d had her so many times. He couldn’t get enough of her—or her him.
The chemistry between them was explosive. Crazy hot. Off the charts. No wonder he’d thought it was a fucking dream. It was too good to be true. He was so stupid, he hadn’t even gotten her number. He pushed his palm against his forehead hard, trying to think what to do. He wasn’t about to give her up, not when his body genuinely reacted to her. Not when she made him laugh the way she did. Not when just her voice and the movements of her body could heal his fragmented brain. He’d been handed a miracle, and he’d carelessly thrown it away. Not thrown it away—driven it away.
He just had to think. Breathe. Get oxygen to his brain and stop panicking. She was out there somewhere. She wasn’t a myth. He hadn’t made her up. The brothers had to have hired her. She didn’t come out of nowhere. She was in his room for a reason—to entertain him. She’d been a gift to him. His fellow Torpedo Ink brothers had to have her name and number. He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course they would know how to contact her. How else had they gotten her for him?
Player took another slow look around the room, this time with satisfaction, letting every detail sink in. He wanted to remember every aspect of the night. Everything, down to the smallest detail, about his private dancer. She’d left behind the remnants of the candles, although he recalled the two of them blowing out the flames over what remained of the dwindling wax. They’d laughed together when they’d nearly hit foreheads. She had such a beautiful, captivating laugh.