Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
What in the world and, “How?”
He lifts his head, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip. My insides begin to pulse and tighten, reacting as though I was that roller.
“I was doing something a little like this when I said ‘you make the hottest little moans, has anyone ever told you that?’ And you said—”
“We weren’t doing that.” My words fall quickly, a snapshot of memory flashing overwhelming me suddenly. “We were in the elevator, and you were—” I roll my lips inward, catching the words just in time.
“Oh, that’s right,” he says with a faintly evil-looking grin. “My mistake. I wasn’t inside you. My cock wasn’t, at least.” He drops lower to the ground, his golden eyes still focused on mine. “I suppose it can’t be classified as a conversation unless you count ungh…”—he gives the earthiest, most porn-worthy moan as his body surges over the roller—“as a coherent response.”
I blink. Swallow. Then the denials begin. “I’m not sure I’ve ever made that noise.”
“I’ll have to record you next time. Do you have a preference between audio and video?” he asks with so much incitement, my cheeks heat hotter than the sun.
“That’s not happening.” I reach out and swipe up the newspaper, unfolding it with a decisive thwap. I stare at it. Through it. Okay, I peek over the top just in time to see Whit lower his head, giving me a stellar view of the muscles in his shoulders, back, and lats. He laughs softly, the gorgeous, horrible man. I shake the newspaper again, turn the page and stare unseeingly as I try to calm my riotous insides.
“Amelia?”
“Yeah?”
“What is it you’re doing?” he purrs.
Trying not to watch you giving that roller a really good time. “What, you’ve never seen anyone read a newspaper before?”
“I didn’t know you were interested in current affairs. French current affairs.”
“What?” A sinking feeling seeps through me.
“When did you learn to speak French?”
Whit
I’m still chuckling to myself as I strip off my track pants. The roller was a stroke of genius—the way her arms had dropped as though they’d suddenly turned to concrete, crushing the newspaper. The priceless look on her face.
She was so fucking riled watching my incitement—so ready to go. I know if I’d slipped my hand into her underwear, she’d be dripping wet. It’s like a sign from the heavens that this is what I need to do. Seduce her. Not just sexually. I need to get her to let her guard down, to step away from whatever fears she’s clinging to, and I’m going to do that by delivering the woo. Big time.
I’d left Zurich full of plans for a confessional. I was going to tell her that the thought of her wandering around museums and art galleries with some other fuck was driving me insane. That I wanted to be the one next to her, carrying the program, reaching for her hand. Stealing kisses in secluded corners. But then George has picked me up from the airport and mentioned how Miss Mimi hadn’t needed a ride home from work. She’d told him she was “going out.”
My heart sank like a rock from a thirty-story building. Then came the venom. She’d done it. She was out with another man, and I had no one to blame but myself for allowing that to happen. I wasn’t sure of my plans when Beckett booted me from the afternoon meeting, but I was certain they would involve making sure she didn’t go on her date. By any means at my disposal. But she was already out.
The apartment felt strangely hollow without her. I’d found myself wandering around it, looking for signs of her existence. Her duffel coat hanging in the cloaks closet. A half-eaten bar of Godiva chocolate in the fridge, not with squares snapped off, but with teeth marks. The scent of her perfume in the hallway drifting all the way to the spare room. A wave of displeasure roiled up my body as I’d spotted bags and boxes with the name of Sunday’s boutique stashed in the room. She’d slept in my bed last night, but her shit was still in this room. I’d stalked to the closet, summarily squashing a bunch of hanging garments together, swiping them up before hanging them in my walk-in robe. I’d made a couple of trips before I’d whipped out drawers full of underwear and the slinky bits of nightwear I’d chosen for her, before dumping them to my bed.
Fuck the idea of her sleeping and getting dressed elsewhere.
And then, as I didn’t have another phone to smash, I decided a run through Hyde Park might get rid of this churning, pent-up displeasure. It turned out to be a long run, and I’d ended up passing by Serpentine Lake. I usually avoid that stretch of the park thanks to the heavier foot traffic, both tourists and the webbed-feet kind. Flocks of swans and geese that make their home on the lake and can be a little unpredictable to navigate. But finding myself there, my strides had begun to slow as I’d watched people out on the water in bright-blue pedalos. Tourists, probably. It struck me that Mimi would enjoy the experience. It would probably appeal to her sense of fun and ridiculousness. I couldn’t quite see myself pedaling through the water, but a rowing boat might be an option. It was hardly going to be a gondola on Venice canals, but it could be a possibility. I’d set off once again, a plan forming in my head, and by the time I’d gotten back to my apartment, I didn’t want to smash my phone anymore. I felt resolved. I had a plan. I was ready to pull out all the stops, whether she was ready for it or not.