Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I don’t indulge in asking him when, but he doesn’t care and answers his own question anyway. I’m trying to avoid his gaze because my body is a treacherous thing. Surely, I can last two minutes in a car with him before ripping my clothes off.
“When you’re coming. Fuck, it’s the hottest thing I have ever seen. When your eyes roll back into your head, your hands clutch together, and your body gets this perfect arch. I want to photograph it and put it up on my wall.” His expression is dripping with lust.
I try to let my hitched breath escape evenly. Fuck, I want his hand to glide farther up my leg. I swallow, hard.
“Maybe one day I’ll let you. I mean, if the price is right,” I tell him.
“Will twenty million cover it?” he asks.
“I think by the time I’m done with you, you may very well be broke,” I joke.
“I’d happily go broke for you.”
I eye him, hating how I react to his words—almost hopeful they’re the truth. I know they are, but it’s because I want something more with Dawson. And I’m not sure if the man who is used to contracts and control can give that to me. To say he’d go broke for me is interesting. We are both people who come from money. Dirty money, earned money, old money. Of all the things that it can buy, love is not one of them.
I turn away. That thought and word coming up again. Love.
Is someone like Dawson even capable of it? Do I even truly comprehend what it is?
We sit in comfortable silence, his thumb tormenting me as it rolls back and forth over my knee. Every glide up, I wish it would go higher and higher.
The car slows down, and the scenery begins to change as we enter a wealthy area of suburbia.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s one of my many houses,” he says as the car stops, and he lets himself out. Shortly after, he opens my door and offers his hand to help me out.
I look up to the beautiful two-story mansion. It’s classic in its own right, chic and polished, much like its owner. Two grand staircases lead up to the oversized balcony on the second floor. The wooden entrance doors are open, with wait staff on either side. The inside is lit up by large chandeliers, and music drifts outside.
“So you don’t live here?” I ask, admiring the beauty of this place. “Are you like the Gatsby of New York?”
He laughs because the house screams lavish events, high society, and leisure.
But not… home.
“I’m sure you’re used to amazing places,” he comments as we walk toward the front doors.
“I am, but this is very nice.” However, it does make me wonder what home looks like to Dawson because this is all business. A showpiece for his clients. I want to know what his house looks like because where a person lives often says a lot about them. Well, that’s what my nonna had always told me.
Dawson’s hand stays on my lower back as we enter the mansion. People start to greet him, throwing curious glances in my direction but asking for no introduction. I’m used to events such as these and honestly prefer when people don’t speak to me. Unless, of course, I’m hosting personally. Not once does his hand leave my lower back.
I find a small bit of satisfaction in the fact that when he shakes other people’s hands, he doesn’t really give anyone much more attention than they deserve, and his attentiveness continues to circle back to me.
We walk through the mansion and arrive in a room where most of the people are mingling. It’s as expected—large chandeliers, grand art pieces, marble flooring, and screams decadence. But I still don’t see Dawson living here.
A lady walks over, holding a tray of champagne. He grabs one and hands it to me before taking one for himself.
An energy buzzes through the air upon the announcement of Dawson’s arrival. If people weren’t mingling before, they sure as hell are now. I find it fascinating to watch. I quickly realize that those wearing a red bowtie or red choker are the escorts. And they’re all beautiful. It’s like they all stepped out of a magazine, but it’s more than that. They ooze ease and charisma. This is the elite, and I feel like I’m stepping into another part of Dawson’s world. Had he started as an escort? He still has so many secrets.
“Should I have a red choker on?” I ask him. I can tell he’s been studying me more than the group around us.
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “The only choker you’ll ever wear is one I provide you.”
As he pulls back, I can sense the shift in him. His hand applies more pressure to my back as an older lady walks over.