Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Oh God. I sit up and look around the unfamiliar bedroom, a burst of adrenaline chasing away the grogginess as I realize where I am and why I’m feeling like this.
I’m in Marcus’s bedroom, and he fucked me all night long.
Okay, maybe that last bit is an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like. The man was insatiable, taking me over and over, as if we hadn’t had sex just a couple of hours earlier. I’ve lost count of how many times I’d orgasmed last night. Seven, eight… nine, maybe?
No wonder my sex feels like it’s been scraped raw with male whiskers.
Because it has been.
My skin heats at the memory, and I pull up the blanket, realizing I’m sitting there totally naked. Thankfully, I’m alone. Gripping the blanket, I look around for my clothes. I don’t see them anywhere, but there is a fluffy pink robe, much like the one I have at home, hanging on the door—and matching fuzzy slippers next to the bed.
I hesitate for a moment, then slide my feet into the slippers and beeline for the robe.
I hate the idea of wearing the same thing as Marcus’s other hook-ups, but it’s better than prancing around naked.
To my surprise, the robe has a tag attached.
Did he get it just for me, or does he keep a stash for these types of situations?
Either way, I gratefully rip off the tag and put on the robe, wrapping the tie around my waist. Unlike mine, it’s long, all the way down to my ankles, and I instantly feel warm and cozy, as if I’m at home cuddling with my cats.
Speaking of which, I have to get back to them soon. They’re not used to me being out all night, and I’m sure Mr. Puffs is already on a path of destruction. Plus, if I don’t do laundry today, I’ll have no underwear for tomorrow.
Marcus is still nowhere to be seen, so I hurry into the adjoining bathroom and take a quick shower, then brush my teeth with a toothbrush I find considerately laid out by the sink, still in its plastic wrapper. There’s also a nice, expensive face moisturizer—unscented, just like I prefer—and even a bottle of hair gel that I use to tame the worst of the frizzy explosion on my head.
My host is really acing this whole “having a female guest” thing.
As I do all this, I try not to gape at my surroundings like a peasant. So what if the square whirlpool tub in the corner is deep enough to stand in? Or that the all-glass shower stall is twice the size of my entire bathroom and equipped with five rotating showerheads? None of that impresses me, not even the futuristic-looking toilet with a built-in bidet and a seat that warms my butt.
Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn’t be more impressed if the furniture levitated around me. The 0.1 percent really do know how to live.
Shaking my head, I go back into the bedroom to try to find my clothes again.
No luck—though I distinctly remember my jeans and sweater landing on the floor as Marcus yanked them off me. He must’ve picked them up and put them somewhere, but where? I don’t see them in the walk-in closet, where Marcus’s suits and shirts hang neatly, sorted by color. Nor are they in any of the drawers in the sleek white chest inside the closet. There are just socks, T-shirts, men’s underwear—I close that drawer fast, feeling like a perv—and other foldable items of clothing. Like the rest of the closet, everything in the drawers is arranged with perfect neatness, as if Marie Kondo just blitzed through the place.
Either Marcus has OCD or his butler does.
My boots are also nowhere to be found, but that makes more sense. I left them in the entryway, not wanting to track New York City dirt all over the gleaming floor when we came in.
I stand up on tiptoes to peer into a built-in shelf in the faint hope that Marcus might’ve stuffed my clothes in there. Nope. Just a box with cufflinks and—
“Emma?”
Heart jumping, I spin around to face Marcus, who’s standing in the closet doorway, dark eyebrows arched.
Oh, crap.
I should’ve realized how this could look.
“Hi. Good morning.” I sound breathless—and probably guilty as sin. “So sorry, but my clothes, they weren’t there. I swear, I wasn’t trying to snoop. It’s just that I was looking for my clothes and—”
“It’s okay.” He steps in, a slow, wicked smile curving his lips. “You can snoop all you want. As for the clothes, I gave them to Geoffrey to be laundered. They should be ready in about an hour.”
“Oh.” That someone would wash my clothes hadn’t even entered my mind. “Okay, thanks.”
So much for my plan to make a quick escape this morning.