Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I look down when he moves his grip from my wrist to my hand as we board the elevator. Then up when I feel his eyes on me. The cold blue stones sink in deep under my impenetrable skin. “No fight?” he asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me directly, and his British accent does nothing to slow down the fluttering inside my tummy. I’m morbid. Must be. My fucked-up life is the only answer to why I find this animal attractive. I’m so fucking angry with myself. I’ve always worked hard to force attraction, to fool people. Now I’m working hard to fool a man into believing that I’m not attracted to him. This is a fucking disaster.
I rip my eyes from his and stare at the back of the man in front of me, saying nothing as the elevator carries us to the very top of the hotel. We exit, still surrounded by his men. It’s a carefully executed operation, every man here knowing their place. Everyone knows their place. Except me. What am I supposed to do?
Only when we’re in the safety of his suite do they disperse, heading to a room off the main space, leaving me alone with Black. I watch him as he wanders over to a cabinet and pours himself a drink. I hear the ice hit the glass. The sound of the liquid meeting the tumbler. The hypnotic clinking of the ice mixing with Scotch as he swirls his drink, turning to face me. Now, in the harsh light of the room, he isn’t just dangerously handsome. He’s deadly handsome. His black hair and pale blue eyes are a stark contrast, but a perfect combination, his tan skin is dusted with even, dark stubble, and his scar is more prominent. Deeper. His eyes seem dead. Cold and dead. But beyond the frostiness, I sense heat. White-hot fire.
Walking casually toward me, he continues to swirl his drink, holding my gaze. Then he’s close again, and I feel my jaw tightening once more in determination to remain as cool as he is. He takes a sip of his drink, forcing me to look away from his taut throat. But I can only convince my eyes to move a few inches up to his, finding him studying me as he rolls an ice cube around in his mouth. Hot and cold. Fire and ice. Two very different things that come together so perfectly. He is fire. And he is ice.
Then he crunches the cube, the sound deafening in the silence. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he says, his voice low and penetrating.
“Who?”
He moves so fast, I miss his hand sailing through the air toward my cheek until his palm connects with my face, delivering a brutal slap. My head jars, and for the first time since I can remember, it hurts to be struck. Not that he would know because I don’t cry out. I don’t flinch or grasp my burning cheek. I just stare him down, watching as a knowing smile creeps onto his face. This smile is genuine. It’s a smile that you would never know this hard face was capable of had you not witnessed it for yourself. And something tells me not many people have.
He nods mildly, taking another swig of his drink. “Slap me,” he commands, full of demand and authority that only a mad person would ignore. So maybe I’m mad, as well as empty.
I shake my head, and he dips, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Slap me,” he whispers, the quiet sound not lacking any of the demand in his previous order, but also sounding like the most erotic order ever murmured.
“Why?” I breathe, closing my eyes as he blows subtle breaths into my ear. Every exhale seems to seep into my mind and ignite every other sense I possess. I’m hyper-alert. God, I feel more alive now than I ever have, and it’s absurd for me to feel this way. The man has death painted all over him.
He pulls back and places a fingertip on my blazing cheek, drawing a line through the fire. “Because I told you to.” Taking a step back, giving me the perfect range, he raises his glass. “Do it.”
I don’t know why, but I don’t think he’s tricking me. I don’t think he’ll beat me black and blue if I strike him. He’s figuring me out. So, I do something I’ve never dared do before. I hit a man, and I do it without one concern that I might be brutally punished in return. My arm moves as quick as his, my strike accurate and hard. It’s like a lifetime’s worth of stress lifts from my shoulders, a million slaps saved for this moment. It’s as if he knows I needed it more than I realize myself.