Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
There’s a knock at my office door and my limp head drops as the big guy strides in. “Jesse. Miss O’Shea, Rococo Union.”
Another hour. “Perfect. Thanks, John.” My voice is hoarse. I’ll get this meeting out the way and then, fuck it, I’m having a drink. Just one. I should’ve insisted Sarah deal with this. I’m in no mood—restless, cranky, and hot.
I watch as John slowly shifts. What’s that look on his face? It’s impassive, as always, unreadable with or without his wraparounds shielding his eyes. But . . . I cock my head.
And nearly choke when he reveals who’s behind him. My limp body finds life and my back straightens.
What. The. Fuck?
I slowly stand from my chair, fully aware that her gaze rises with me. Is this her? Is this the woman who’s filled my new place with all that Italian shit—Italian shit that inflated the price by another million quid?
I start walking around my desk, taking her in, every gorgeous little bit of her. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. The women around here, they’re mostly mid-thirties plus. She’s, what? Mid-twenties? Too young for me. Way too young for me.
I nibble my bottom lip, thinking, noting her eyes still firmly set on me. She looks a little . . . struck. I inwardly smile.
My legs are moving, but I can’t feel the damn things. My mind is clean. My vision clear. My senses alert. Almost like when I finish a fifteen-mile run. I like those feelings, but I like them more when I’ve not had to nearly kill myself to achieve that sense of freedom. I reach up and feel my jaw. I should’ve shaved. Do I look older with stubble?
I close the distance between us, taking her in. Jesus, she’s getting more beautiful the closer I get, her dark hair pinned up, her perfect little figure screaming for me to run my hands all over it. I want to remove those pins and plunge my fingers into those shiny locks. Her eyes, good God, those dark eyes.
Jesus, Ward, pull it together.
But . . . I’m not alone in my admiring. She’s taking me in, assessing every part of me. I’m not what she expected either. What was she expecting?
John said Miss O’Shea, didn’t he? Miss.
She’s sublime. Completely and utterly sublime.
And so totally out of place around here. Lord, if any of the men of The Manor caught sight of her, they’d be fighting over who got her in the communal room first. It would be a frenzy, possibly even a bloodbath.
Smile at her. I should smile at her, but my trusty smile is nowhere to be found. I’m being failed by my magnetic asset, feeling like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. Her gaze. It’s not pouring with longing for me, something that usually gets under my skin.
She’s . . . unsure. Stunned into silence and stillness. I’m with her.
I finally convince my arm to lift, offering my hand. She remains motionless. Frozen. In a trance. I’m giving her three seconds before I’m moving in.
One.
Two.
Three.
I slowly lean forward and grasp her shoulders, my face going straight to the smooth, olive skin of her cheek. I could get drunk on her scent alone. I feel her tensing under my touch, and I laugh on the inside. These hands, lady, will give you hours of pleasure. My mouth, my tongue, my cock.
“It’s a pleasure,” I whisper. It really fucking is. A very unexpected pleasure.
She moans, and I smile, easing up on my grip, lowering myself so I’m at her eye level. “Are you okay?” I can feel my lips curving into a smile as she lifts those stunning chocolate eyes to mine. I’m so fucking happy in this moment. And it’s . . . freeing, actually.
She suddenly seems to snap out of her trance and steps back, and my hands drop to my side. I inwardly pout. “Hi.” She virtually coughs it out. “Ava, my name is Ava.” She holds her hand out to me.
Her voice. Fuck me, I’m a goner. And I’m physically trembling. I really need to stop drinking. I take her hand and squeeze but pull away abruptly when I’m struck by an electric shock that flies up my arm and stabs at my heart, making it suddenly buck wildly.
What the fuck was that?
Dazed and massively confused, I repeat her name, it falling naturally from my lips, no other words coming to me. Oh Jesus, I need to be shouting that when I’m hammering into her. I want to make her scream, claw at me, bite me. She’s just staring at me—this painfully beautiful young woman is staring at me, and for once in my fucking life, I’m stumped. No words. But plenty of thoughts.
I need to offer her a membership. She can have it for free. My heart is booming for the first time in years. Is it excitement? Anticipation? I don’t know, but I tell you what I do know . . .