Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Now I’m the one leaning forward.
“Bastian.”
He brings his drink to his lips. “Rich Girl.”
“You better be careful. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
I realize as I say it that I’m worried but not for me, for him.
I don’t want him to get hurt.
What would I do if he was?
Resisting the urge to swallow, I pull in a slow breath.
Something intense flares in his piercing orbs, and I wonder if he knows. If my fear for him is written all over me … or if he can simply read me better than I’d like. Slowly, his attention falls, gaze scorching across my skin like the threat of a flame too close, and I fight the urge to cover myself. Not from his searing appraisal but from some ridiculous emotion I can’t quite name.
It’s sour and irritably similar to shame, but that’s ridiculous. I have nothing to feel ashamed of and now I’m getting annoyed.
To distract myself, I pour us both a shot from the blue whiskey bottle closest to me. Without looking away from one another, we empty the contents of our glasses.
As he swallows, I’m called to his Adam’s apple, stuck staring as it pops slightly beneath the tattoos there, and then his tongue pokes out, demanding I follow its path as it glides along his lower lip, spinning the lip ring as he loves to do.
Maybe he doesn’t even notice he does it.
Maybe he does it because he knows I like it …
“So.” He pauses, the air thickening and not in the good way. “This is why you wear them little clip things. For a bunch of motherfuckers in monkey suits.”
“Careful,” I edge quietly, eyes flicking over his shoulder a brief moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he deadpans, not lowering his tone by a single octave. “Motherfuckers in monkey suits … with lots of money, yeah? I get it right that time?”
My pulse jumps and I grip the countertop, hating the anxious tension crawling up my spine.
Bastian sits back, throwing one arm over the chair beside him, and glances behind him when a table close to the door cheers, obviously being dealt a winning hand. When he turns back, he’s grinding his jaw. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” I defend. “You don’t—”
“Belong?” His eyes flash. “Yeah, I know.”
“That’s not what—”
“Don’t lie.”
God, he’s infuriating! I study him for several long moments, unsure of what to say, but then he folds his arms over the granite before him, cocking his head.
“You playin’ with me, Rich Girl?” He speaks each word slowly and purposefully. “Cause if you are, it won’t end well. I might be broke, but I’m not dumb. I’m a clever piece of shit. It would do you some good to remember that.” He drums his fingers against the countertop, eyes following the movement a moment before popping up to mine, this time full of anger I don’t quite understand. It’s deeper. Darker. Something’s changed. Something’s … wrong. “Street smarts beat out nine to one every single time, and by the looks of it, you ain’t got no one around who has ’em. You willin’ to bet against those odds?”
This guy. He has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. None.
A soft vibration sounds and my eyes bulge as he begins shoving his hand in his pocket, mine darting across the table to grip his wrist.
His gaze slices up to mine, pupils doubling in size.
“That is a sure way to get a bullet in your brain,” I hiss. “Guaranteed privacy, that is what we offer here. No exceptions. How the hell did you get that past security?” I demand, then think better of it. “Don’t say it.”
“Who is the Henshaw heir?”
His question catches me so off guard I stiffen. “What?” How does he know about him?
Bronx!
“Is he in here?” he asks. Demands really.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, tingling for all the wrong reasons. “Do not make a scene,” I warn.
His eyes sharpen, and terrifyingly slow, he stands, his grip on me unrelenting. “So he is in here.”
“No,” I hiss.
He’s behind the glass.
He cocks his head a little, studying me, and after several silent seconds, rounds the counter.
I should pull away.
I should issue another warning and make it count, but something deep beneath my bones won’t let me. Now I’m playing the part of that gazelle, waiting for the rogue lion with bated breath.
I can accept his touch, his kiss, but I’ve never allowed anyone in this room close enough to try.
Bastian isn’t interested in my permission but is prepared to take what he wants, to take from me. The girl everyone gives to.
My stomach erupts with a tingling sensation. I have no business feeling at the thought, yet there it is, growing, spreading through my every vein, and he sees it.
He’s in front of me now, and this time, his arm does hook around my body, and in one swift tug, I’m flush against him, the zippers of his leather jacket scraping along my arms.