Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
She watched him from beneath her lashes, her slender legs dangling off the side, the toes of her shoes flexed above the carpet. Not a single footprint indented the threads between her and the door. Had she hurdled the ten-foot distance? Impossible. How did she erase her tracks so fast?
Her silence pushed against him, scattering into the hallway and pulsing with the faint rasp of her inhales. She sat motionless, eyes lowering, as if held by an innate need to please. As if waiting for her Master to speak.
A warm current ran the length of his body, prickling his skin. Subservient Amber did not help his obsessive thoughts. His cock ached, but the greedy bastard didn't run things. He wouldn't take her impulsively. Not without planning. Maybe not ever.
He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, subtly scuffing his heels to smudge the vacuumed stripes in his path.
She glared at his tracks, and her jaw clenched. Yeah, her OCD harbored some affection for clean lines.
He paused before her, brushing his knees against hers and coaxing an exhale from her sweet lips. A discreet scan of the room revealed the same rigid order as the rest of the house. But what the fuck was the bizarre display in the corner?
A glass aquarium sat on a stand, brimming with twisted bits of filigree metalwork, broken bronze statues, and beveled gems—some attached to strips of metal, others loose and chipped.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are those—?”
“Those are nothing,” she snapped, meeting his gaze.
Either she designed metal art, or she'd unleashed a pissed-off hammer on a trophy collection. Her locked jaw suggested the latter. Strange she hadn't covered it the way she'd concealed the self-help books, but he let it go for now.
“Why are we here?” He nodded at the bed.
“Why not?”
Because phobic girls didn't invite strangers where they slept. He gave her a human smile. “It wasn't a personal question.” But he hoped it would incite a personal answer.
“Right.” She looked at the bed and smoothed the white quilt beside her hip. “This is part of the offer.”
His head jerked back. What the—
“Sex in exchange for dropping off my shipments.” Her tone was unshakably and incautiously determined. She'd done this before.
The cold splash of realization doused his brain. And his libido. Christ, why hadn't he seen this coming? Of course, her mental condition would force her to depend on people. People with hard dicks weeping to accept her non-cash payments. People like Zachary Fucking Kaufman.
Goddammit, her offer stung. He wasn't some delivery bitch boy, earning pussy for a walk to the mailbox. He was there for his own purpose, not hers, and he'd damned well fuck her on his terms. “No.”
Her face fell. “Oh. I thought—”
“I was so hard-up I had to run errands to get my dick wet?” His tone was harsh, though his anger had nothing to do with being hard-up.
Hell, eight years ago, he had been the whore, exchanging blowjobs for crack. No doubt, he would've been bent under some rutting drug-dealer at that very moment if Mr. E hadn't returned for him. Twenty-five years late, and still, he'd been overjoyed to meet long lost Dad.
A vein pulsed, hot and angry, on his forehead. Well, didn't that memory darken his mood? He should thank the good people of Austin for promoting Mr. E to police chief. The new position had come with too much scrutiny for a figurehead who trafficked slaves on the side. Mr. E had needed a front man to run the operation and remembered he had a twenty-five-year-old bastard son. A son, as it turned out, who had no qualms about profiting from sexual services.
Unless those services involved Amber and dipshit deliverymen. A beautiful woman should never sell herself so cheaply. She deserved better than Zachary Kaufman, and she definitely deserved better than what he had planned for her.
Fuck it. This irrational jealousy, or whatever it was, pissed him the hell off. He wanted to wash his hands of her. More than that, he wanted to brand her with a hundred possessive welts.
She fussed with her hair, hands shaking, and eyelids heavy with shame. “Can we just forget I said...that?”
Seriously? He squeezed his fingers into a fist, fighting the impulse to swing and knock her on her ass. He didn't want to scare her too badly. Not yet. Nor did he want to let this Zachary shit go. “Do you fuck all your house-guests?”
“That's a personal question.” Her stubborn chin and hard eyes only fueled his need to punch her.
He leaned over her, hands on the bed beside her hips, and pushed his face into hers. “Your offer to fuck bowled straight through personal and landed smack between your legs. Might as well spread 'em and air it all out.”
“Oh my God.” Her chest rose, brushing his, but she didn't lean away, didn't look away. “Can you please step back?”