Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Her pretty face curdles.
But the fire I can’t temper in my eyes, lapping at her skin, must get her attention. She looks at me, cocks her head, and polishes off another delicate sip of wine before speaking.
“So, what are you? Submarine sailor? A marine?”
“He was a Navy SEAL,” Ma answers for me. “He hates me for saying it, but we’re all family now. There’s no sense in secrets. I don’t even know if it’s classified or whatever now that he’s out.”
I glare, but she carries on undaunted.
“My son’s very shy when it comes to his work. Or the government just keeps his lips sewn shut or something. That little company he works for now is just as bad.” She wrinkles her nose.
Or something.
Goddamn, I’d love to show her why classified information exists.
The only thing worse than the media jackals I dealt with overseas are Ma’s loose lips. My commanding officer wrung my neck not long after I joined the SEAL team when she drunkenly squawked to a tabloid.
Thankfully, the tabloid asshole dropped the story before it went live, but only after she shelled out some serious money.
If my mother thinks her new sugar daddy gives her a license to blab about my business, she can think the fuck again.
“A SEAL?” Delia sounds sincerely impressed when she looks at me again. “Wow. You must be awfully good at what you do to have had the honor...”
“I’m good at everything I do,” I throw back, locking eyes until she looks away. My confidence scares her, and I fucking love it. “I’ve got my duties and I take them seriously. That’s all anybody at this table needs to know.”
I drag my fork across the appetizer plate of stuffed mushrooms, puncturing the awkward silence that follows.
“So, Bruce, while we’re sharing secrets, why don’t you tell us about the big merger coming up?” Ma’s face is a mask of nerves as she looks at him intently.
I’ve got a feeling Daddy Warbucks has a narcissistic streak as well. And I’m right when his face lights up, and he launches into a long-winded story that spares no detail or legalese.
It’s not hard to miss the main point—if and when this merger with a rival airline gets wrapped up sometime this century, it’s guaranteed to make him even richer.
What else is new with the world?
After glazing over for five minutes while I pick at my risotto, the main dish arrives. I huff out a grateful breath.
Seared steak and lobster with this citrus-glazed asparagus pairs well with the beer I have brought out.
It’s almost enough to forget about the hot piece I won’t be bedding tonight while I down my tall glass in one swallow. Mom gives me the stink eye the entire time.
Hilarious.
It’s like she doesn’t know I’m doing her a favor by taking the edge off.
A mild buzz is the lesser evil versus letting my hands have their way.
If they get half a chance, they’ll be under the table again, and this time they won’t stop at Delia’s supple thigh.
I ask for another beer—some imported Japanese brew Bruce recommends—the instant the waiter reappears.
I need it to stop imagining sliding my fingers into his daughter, dragging them to my lips, and tasting a sweetness far more decadent than a hundred of these high-class dinners.
It doesn’t help that I have to count in my head, ticking off every precious second I pry my eyes off her.
One.
She won’t even look at me.
I see her in my peripheral vision, quietly stabbing at her food. She only lifts her head to glance at our parents and nod along with whatever mundane thing they’re blabbing about.
Pretty sure it’s that honeymoon to Fiji.
Two.
Her foot scrapes mine and sweeps back into her space like she’s hit an electric current.
Fuck, that hurts.
I’m not insane—I know she has her reasons—but am I really so repulsive when she was sucking my tongue last night? All because of this clownish technicality making us 'family?'
My hand drifts under the table.
I brush her hip, softly at first, then more insistently because I still won’t let myself look at her.
Three.
She jolts up, nearly knocking her chair out behind her.
“Excuse me,” she mutters as her dad stops talking. “Bathroom break. I’ll be right back.”
I pretend to scratch my chin, hiding my predatory smirk, but I think she sees it anyway before she stalks away.
She looks like she could stab me right between the eyes—and I wonder what my malfunction is when that turns me on so much.
Maybe it’s just the thought of being awkwardly ignored by a woman I was guaranteed to sink my dick into only hours ago.
Fuck everything about this.
I’m hate-chewing my lobster, not even caring about flecks of shell in my teeth, when she returns and sits down next to me five minutes later without a second glance.
“Say, Christopher, since you’re working security now, you could translate that experience into something that’d let you have a life.” My mother throws an expectant look across the table.