Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Because that was a fuckuva lot of skin on display.
She’d gone with an emerald green skintight dress that showed off most of her legs, and was cut low in the back.
I hated how I noticed there was no way she could wear a bra in a dress like that.
“That’s my good boy,” she cooed at Hugh as he ran back inside, all proud of himself. “Are you gonna take a nap while I go out?” she asked as Hugh ran toward the couch and made his way up his steps to plop down on a pillow.
It seemed the dog was used to his owner’s out-all-night schedule.
I, on the other hand, was going to need to adjust.
Farm life as a kid and teen, then life in the service, made me a very strictly up-with-the-sun sort of person. Even without an alarm clock set, I was up by five in the morning. Out of the service and off of the farm, that was convenient enough to allow me to get a workout in before the day really got going.
The problem was, being up at five meant I was usually dead on my feet by ten at night.
It was nine-thirty as Scarlet checked the contents of her wristlet, then attached her phone to it, ready to go out for the night.
“Here,” she said, finally turning to me for the first time, giving me a look at the front of her dress and the way it hugged her soft curves.
I forced myself not to focus on the way that, even without a bra, her tits were sitting high, just aching to have a man close his hands around and squeeze, to tease with his fingers and tongue, to slide his cock between.
No.
Fuck.
I needed to focus.
“What is this?” I asked as she thrust something rectangular at me. As I took it, it was heavy in my hand.
“A battery bank,” she said. “I don’t have anywhere to hold it. You have pockets.”
“And by that you mean Do you mind carrying this for me, right?” I asked as I shoved it into my pocket.
“Whatever,” she said, then turned to her dog again. “You be a good boy and I’ll give you a yummy you-know-what when I get home, okay?” she asked, rubbing his head, and then making her way toward the door without another word to me.
When she passed, I got a whiff of her perfume.
That was good, too.
Unexpected.
Not cloyingly sweet.
But almost smoky. Rich. Intoxicating.
I could barely hold myself back from leaning in closer and taking a deep breath.
Lucky enough for me, we were in an enclosed elevator not long after, and I got as much of it as I could want.
On the way down, Scarlet pulled out her phone, then held it up high as she threw up a peace sign and did a fake smile so big that her eyes closed.
Then snapped a picture.
I made a mental note to find her social media in my downtime, finding myself interested in what she was saying online, how she was projecting herself.
Because that picture was a complete facade as the smile immediately fell and she tapped away at her phone to, I imagine, type up a caption for the image.
“What?” she asked, making me realize she’d finished and noticed I was looking at her.
“Where are we heading?” I asked, not wanting her to think I’d been eye-fucking her.
“A bunch of places,” she said with a shrug, then moved out of the elevator car and through the lobby of her building. “Don’t wait up for me,” she called to the doorman, a different one from the morning. “Where is… oh, hey,” she said, giving a small smile to the man standing beside the town car parked a few yards away from the door.
“Miss Chandelier,” he greeted her with a much more genuine smile.
He was an old man to be pulling a night shift like this. But he seemed unbothered by the situation as he waited there in his black slacks, white shirt, and black suit jacket—I was almost surprised he didn’t have to wear the stereotypical little hat—and waited for Scarlet to slip inside.
She did so with a grace I hadn’t expected, her wristlet pressed to her chest, so she didn’t show too much tit, her ass hitting the seat first, then swinging her legs in, knees pressed together tight.
No up-skirt pantyless paparazzo shots like I’d assumed, then.
Or, perhaps, she’d simply learned from past mistakes.
“No,” she snapped at me as I approached the door. “You sit up front.”
Her driver, whose name I knew was Eric from the paperwork Marcus had provided me, gave me an apologetic smile as he slammed her door.
You sit up front.
That phrase had so much snobbery in it, I was actually frozen there on the sidewalk for a second, looking at the car, staring daggers at her through the heavily tinted window. I couldn’t see her. But I knew she was looking. And some part of me needed her to know she was dangerously close to overstepping a line.