Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
“Jesus,” the woman pants. “You’re worth the trouble. Really, Hunter...what a fucking stud.”
I listen with my heart in my throat, but Hunter is silent as the woman makes a little mewling sound. I can hear the shuffling sound of fabric over bodies, but there are no words—just the woman’s panting.
A second later there’s heavy footfall, followed by the low squeal of a closing door.
“Christ,” the raspy, female voice whispers.
Looking down at my hand on the doorknob, I realize there’s a key hole and I peek through it, getting a fleeting glimpse of Priscilla Heat in her red taffeta gown. Hunter has left her there with swollen lips and wild hair, examining her manicure as she leans on one of the ivy-covered columns framing a sunken tub.
Hunter—well-mannered, charming Hunter—slapped her ass, bruised her lips, and then he left her there. For some reason, that does crazy things to me: the image of Hunter, pulling down his expensive trousers and taking out his cock. Quick, rough sex, and then he’s gone.
I glance behind me and, seeing no one, stumble farther down the hallway. I’m weaving like a drunk, and I am drunk: drunk on pent-up lust and yes, a pathetic, juvenile crush. I stumble past a row of dark wood doors, stopping for a breath when I reach a bend in the hall.
I lean against the burgundy wallpaper, shocked by the intensity of my arousal. Every breath only steepens my desire. I think about how long it’s been since I took care of myself. I’ve been busy studying for finals, so I guess it’s been about a week. As I stand there throbbing, I look down the remainder of the hall and notice there are no doors beyond the one I just passed. The hall turns to the right and leads around to the massive foyer, if I’m correct about where I am.
I glance left and right again. No one is around. I can’t even hear the string band playing in the great hall. I take a deep, shaky breath. Then I grab the handle of the door behind me. It’s taller and wider than the others, and to my surprise, it gives when I turn the knob.
Blinded by a haze of lust, I sail into the room, flaps of emerald silk flying around me, my hand already reaching between my legs.
Through my mental fog, I notice the vastness of the bedroom. My eyes slide over the flames blooming in a marble fireplace and I spot a tasseled pillow tossed haphazardly, inches from the fire. My attention settles on the bed; it’s huge, with four mahogany posts and a deep green bedspread that matches my gown almost perfectly. I dimly note a surprising lack of pillows, just before I trip on one. I glance down at my feet, surprised to find I am standing in a sea of pillows. I glance around, still panting, and notice a broken mirror hanging beside a small armoire.
I’m confused and for a second, worried, but another glance around the room reveals nothing else out of the ordinary. I assume someone has used the room for a party quickie. That turns me on even more, and I rush back to the door, locking it behind me before striding to the bed.
It’s ridiculous. I’m still blazing hot. I feel full and restless. Desperate. I know what I need. I’ve never done this outside my bedroom, but Hunter West does something strange to me, so I’m not entirely surprised—nor am I inclined to stifle my desire. I’m a grown woman, and God knows I’m the only one with a say-so in my sex life. Why not do what I want? Ten minutes, and I’ll be back out in the hall, feeling a lot more level-headed. It’s win-win.
I laugh softly as I scoot up onto the mattress, inhaling the sweet scent of leather and cologne as I lean back on the only remaining pillow. Sweaty and trembling, I part my legs and reach under my gown. My fingers have just found their mark when a shadow rises from the floor space on the other side of the bed.
2
Elizabeth
HUNTER IS SHIRTLESS and sweat-slicked, with dark eyes and a thoughtful, soft mouth. He wipes his forehead, squinting, and speaks in a voice that sounds strangely far away. “Is that you, Libby?”
He gets to his feet, and I can’t speak. Can’t even move. When I find my voice, I sound like I’m choking. “Libby? N-no.”
God help me, he’s beautiful. I’m in awe of his wide shoulders and that chiseled chest. My heart is racing and between my legs, I clench in response to—well, it must be pheromones. I have the urge to grab his arms and pull him down beside me on the bed. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, belatedly aware that I’ve got a hand up in my gown.