Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I should go. “I’ll see you tomorrow night?” I ask, choosing to believe I will. Choosing two more nights for now.
“Of course,” he says. “The Bettencourt.”
It’s not a date, but it’s a promise. We at least have two more nights. Time for me to devise a new plan.
I slide off him, grab my phone, adjust my skirt, and reach for the handle.
“Wait.”
My pulse sings. I turn to him, eager.
“I have something for you,” he adds.
“What is it?” I ask, but he’s already unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his white T-shirt underneath. It fits him like a dream, stretched tight across his strong chest.
Then my gaze strays to his arms. I haven’t seen him like this before—where I’ve had permission to look freely. Where I’ve been able to stare at the muscles, the ink on his forearm. Where I’ve been able to touch. I reach for him and trace the lines of the tattoo on his right arm. Quietly. Wordlessly.
He shudders as I travel along the vines drawn on his skin, curling around a small stack of books. Why does he have this? Sure, I can guess, but I want to know his reason. But now’s not the time to ask about his ink. I’ve been given a gift just to touch it, to touch him.
My heart skids against my rib cage. He is beautiful.
And he will be mine.
I let go, and he blinks like he’s floating back to earth. Then he hands the crisp orange shirt to me, and I press it to my nose, inhaling him, inhaling our secret.
After another searing kiss, he strokes my cheek. “Take a picture in it. Send it to me.”
I will.
23
A THANK YOU GIFT
Bridger
Twenty minutes later, I’m home, my mind at war with my body. Or maybe my brain’s simply fighting with itself.
My emotional mind says, run to her.
And my rational mind says, run from her.
But my heart, my stupid fucking heart, just says…her.
Over and over, as I stare at my phone, and wait.
I can’t let go of the damn device as I walk to my closet, sit on the stool, take off my shoes and neatly set them on the shoe rack. I put my phone on the cushion as I strip off socks and then slacks, folding the pants neatly, setting them in the dry-cleaning pile. I toss my T-shirt in the laundry.
I grab the phone once more, checking again.
This is me—down to boxer briefs and my phone.
Dear god, who have I fucking become?
I have to stop, and yet I’m strung out on mere hope for a photo.
Get a grip.
Leaving the phone on my nightstand, I shed my boxer briefs, step into the shower, and let the hot water sluice over me until it washes away tonight.
Soon, my business partner will be back in town.
Soon, I’ll have to look him in the eyes.
Soon, we’ll do another deal.
We’ll talk about Afternoon Delight, we’ll work on the concept, we’ll deal with Sweet Nothings.
I can’t do that if I’m fucking his daughter.
You’re not fucking her.
Yet.
“God,” I mutter, slamming a fist against the tiled wall in the shower. Like the technicality matters. I shut off the faucet, step out, grab a towel.
As I dry off, I remind myself that there’s so much more at stake than Ian.
Hundreds of employees.
The shows we own.
The productions we oversee.
All of those people around the world who depend on the two of us for paychecks. All those productions. All our plans. How the hell can I lead this company if I’m sleeping with the other guy’s daughter?
Ian would never forgive me. He’d never trust me. And he wouldn’t want to work with me anymore.
I can’t keep doing this with her. But when I pull on a pair of gym shorts to sleep in, then head to bed, I lunge for the phone, checking it once again.
My heart slams ruthlessly when I see her name. Taunting me.
I sink back onto the mattress, gripping the phone like it’s a precious artifact. It is. It holds the key to her. I slide it open. My mouth is dry as I click on her name, then I open the message.
There’s nothing, not a single thing, sexier in the world than this.
Harlow, in the mirror, her whole body this time.
She wears nothing but my shirt.
Her legs are bare, the cuffs are rolled up twice, and the top few buttons are undone, giving me a peek of the curve of her breasts.
Her lips are parted slightly.
I trace her outline adoringly. Then I tell myself not to look again, not to reply. But I can’t ignore this photo or the words she sent—Thank you for my gift.
I tap out a note, then hit send.
You deserve all the gifts.
A few seconds later, three dots appear. But before she can send a response, I sneer at my reply. You deserve all the gifts?