Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
"And a mention of your girth."
He chuckles. "You're making this up."
"Exaggerating for effect."
"What's the truth?"
"You're rough. Bossy."
"When I fuck? Or normally?"
"Both."
"Sometimes," he says. "It depends who I'm fucking. What she likes."
"What's your preference?"
He turns to me. "You're right. I'm usually bossy. I'm usually with someone who expects me to step into that role."
"Wrap your tie around her wrists?"
"It's happened."
"Do you like it?"
"It fucks with the tie."
A laugh spills from my lips. "Really?"
"Creases in the wrong places. But I can't complain. I enjoy filling fantasies."
"Is that your fantasy?"
"No."
"Do you have one?"
"Only one?"
Fuck. What am I doing? I'm not trying to fuck him. Or go for round two. Or start some sort of enemies with benefits arrangement.
I'm surviving the drive.
And we're almost there.
I need to lower the temperature. Think of something incredibly unsexy. Like Lee's meddling. Or the accident that killed one brother and maimed the other?
Which brother did he promise?
The one who's gone?
That's sweet. Almost romantic. Completely unlike the Simon Pierce I know.
I unfold and refold my hands. Try to find some other topic. Something unappealing.
But my thoughts stay in the gutter.
The smell of his soap.
The taste of his lips.
The sound of his groan.
What if I unzipped him here, in the back seat of the car, with the driver watching?
I've never wanted that before.
Anything close to that.
But the image refuses to leave my mind. My clothes on the floor. His hands on my chest. My lips wrapped around his cock.
His eyes flit to my thighs, waist, chest, lips.
Meet mine.
It's like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
Like he's thinking exactly the same thing.
I need to say something. Anything as long as it's not take off your pants or do you want to come upstairs? "I didn't tell Lee. But she guessed."
"Opal too."
"Are we obvious?"
"Apparently."
"I did show up in a gown at nine a.m.," I say. "Not discrete."
His eyes flit to my bare thighs.
"And Lee said you had lipstick on your collar."
"I did."
"I'm not going to apologize."
"I wasn't going to ask."
My chest flushes.
"How did she know?"
"I guess Opal told Liam and Liam told Harrison."
"Harrison is gossiping?" he asks.
"It's that or Lee and Opal are friends."
"Hell has frozen," he says.
"You would know."
He lets out a low, deep laugh. "It's been a few days since I've checked in, but it wouldn't be unusual."
"It wouldn't?"
"Eternal flames don't scare everyone. We need icy landscapes for that."
"Hell for people who hate winter."
He nods.
"Is that the part you oversee?"
"How'd you know?"
"It suits you. The cold demeanor. The clear blue eyes. Simon the Ice King."
"Not the King of Darkness?"
"Dark ice. The days are short in the winter."
He smiles. A full smile. A panty-melting smile.
Why am I still wearing panties?
Why am I wearing any clothes?
I could take off his pants and mount him.
And—
Fuck. "I tried to tell Lee it was none of her business, but she doesn't take no for an answer."
"You don't either."
Not usually. But—"She knows how to work me."
"A younger sibling gift."
"It must be." Did he tell someone?
Did he want to brag to friends? Or hold the memory close and replay it again and again?
The image fills my head. Simon, in some massive masculine bedroom, in a king bed, wrapped in silk sheets, his hand around his cock, his thoughts tuned to me.
The car stops.
Fuck.
We're already here.
I grab my bag, unhook my seat belt, reach for the car door.
But the driver is too fast. He opens for me.
Simon gets out, helps me onto the sidewalk. Stands tall and broad and proud.
I'm not used to seeing him in running shoes. I only have an inch of lift in these. Not the four inches of my heels. Or the two and a half of my sensible pumps.
I want to rise to my tiptoes and kiss him.
I want to demand he come upstairs. Then make me come upstairs.
"I'll walk you up," he says.
I expect a no to fall from my lips. Or some other sensible excuse. I'm sorry. I can't trust myself alone with you for another second. Instead, I say, "Thanks," and lead him into my building.
Past the doorman and the security guard at the desk—a little security is necessary in my line of work, but this is nothing compared to the office.
Into the tiny elevator.
He carries my bag. He punches my floor. I'm not sure how he knows it. A party or another night he walked me home.
Some gentleman power, maybe.
Chivalry is in his bones.
I focus on my inhale, my exhale, anything other than my desire to pin him to the wall.
Finally, the car arrives, the doors slide open.
He waits and follows me around the corner to the front door.
"I'll ask my siblings to drop it," he says. "But the more I say, the more they'll push."
"Better not to mention it."
He nods. "Let them think we talked about something boring."
"Taxes?"
"Zoning laws."
"Zoning laws," I say. "What's your stance?"
"I want to see you again."