Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Are you … I mean, are you offering to pay me for sex?” she asks, her face pale, her gaze looking at me like I’m insane.
And hell, I probably am.
“I’m not offering to pay you at all. I’m merely offering to keep you out of jail.” I stare at her, trying to see if I can answer my own question before I throw it out at her. “Do you do drugs?” I ask her, not getting that vibe from her but needing to know before I go farther. That’s a can of worms I’m not about to open.
“What?” she all but shouts, as if disgusted I even brought it up. “Of course not!” she yells.
“Take your jacket off,” I demand, needing to make sure there are no track marks or other tell-tale signs of drug use.
“What? Are you fucking insane? It’s cold!” she argues, showing a stubborn spirit that I like.
“Do it,” I growl, and I see her eyes widen a bit from my harsh tone. But she does what I say, and a sliver of pleasure moves through me that she obeyed without much hesitance. When her jacket is off, I run my hands over her arms, searching, her skin smooth like butter, soft. I can smell her even better now, this peachy scent that makes me feel drunk. Peach is my fucking favorite.
My cock is pressing against the zipper of my slacks, demanding to be out. I’m definitely attracted to her and that’s a complication I don’t need. Jesus, she’s only eighteen.
She’s completely legal.
A small voice echoes the thought in my head and the tip of my cock starts to get wet from pre-cum, as if the fucker is in agreement. There are no signs of drug use, although I’ll search her legs and toes later. Junkies can be slick about hiding that kind of thing. Still, I don’t see anything about this girl that says she’s that type. She’s clean for running the streets, smells incredible, and her nails are even painted. Fucking painted this light pink color that has my balls drawing up and images slamming through my head of me sucking those digits into my mouth.
Her eyes are completely focused too, trained right on me, as if she wants to slug me in the nose. I grin. I like this fire in her. It’s a hell of a lot different than the fake as fuck socialites that run in my circles.
I think about my arousal for her, knowing that I haven’t been with a woman in a long fucking time. I’ve not even been interested in one until seeing Macy; that’s how I know I’m in trouble where she’s concerned.
I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off of her.
Suddenly, this bargain has an added plot twist to it besides sticking it to Senator Harris and his bitch of a wife.
Macy’s about to learn that what I want, I get.
And what I want is her.
It’s as simple as that.
Macy
The fact that I agreed to go through with this says I am either crazy as hell, or not as hard as I thought I was. Because I should have called his bluff, I should have told him to fuck off, that he’d have to catch me first and prove I did anything wrong.
But I just stared up at him and gave him my name, all but admitted what I’d done.
And here I am, trying on dresses like some paper doll, all because he blackmailed me.
Even though I don’t know Braden, I know the kind of man he is. He gets what he wants, when he wants. That’s clearer than the fact that I look out of place in this damn dress.
He takes no shit from people. And if he said he would call the cops on me, I know he would have. And no matter how tough I act, going to jail scares the hell out of me. It’s not enough for me to stop picking pockets and having sticky fingers, but enough that if he is willing to let me off the hook and all I have to do is go on a fake date with him, then hey, I can do that.
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror with the dress he picked out, wondering what the hell I am actually doing. This is so unlike me, and I’m so out of place here.
I’m a ponytail, jeans, and ratty band T-shirt kind of girl. But here I am, standing at some exclusive boutique that closed down just for Braden. I stare at my reflection in the elegant evening gown that costs more than I’d make in a year.
“Let me see,” he barks out from behind the curtain, his tone a harsh demand.
I clench my teeth together. I’m not used to anyone talking to me this way. It’s usually the other way around, where I’m giving the demands, I’m making my own way. But with Braden I’m on this whole different level. I feel so very feminine around him, as if I want to bend to his will, to just give in.