Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
If he thinks he’s getting himself into my pants tonight, he can go fuck himself.
I pull up next to him in the parking lot and get out. He’s leaning against the hood of his car, his hands in his pockets, his chin against his chest. He’s marginally illuminated by the streetlight, but most of his face is hidden by the darkness.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He looks up. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”
“Several things, but that’s not the issue here.” I dump my purse on the hood of his car and put my hands on my hips. “Are you having a male period or something? Because your mood changed quicker than a fucking traffic light at rush hour.”
“Excuse me for being a little put out when my date started talking about fancy-ass cocktail guys or some bullshit.”
“It wasn’t a date.” I stop. Was it? No. “That wasn’t a date! That was a fucking business proposition.”
“A date disguised as one.” He clamps his jaw shut and pushes off the car. “That was the whole bloody point of the night. A date you didn’t know was a date.”
I rub my temples. “Why would you do that when you know how I feel about dating?”
“That’s why I did it.” He runs his fingers through his hair.
“Well, if that’s the way you treat your ‘dates,’ I’ll be rethinking Saturday night.”
His arms shoot out. His hands clamp around my wrists and he pulls me into him. His fingers stroke my jaw, and he tilts my head back so I’m looking at him.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says tightly. “You’re going to the party with me on Saturday whether you fucking like it or not.”
I narrow my eyes. “Last I remembered, you weren’t the boss of me.”
“You weren’t saying that when you were screaming my name.”
“Prick!” I snatch my wrists from him, but he’s quicker.
His arms circle my waist and crush me against him, flipping me over and laying me back against his car. His lips take mine in a rough kiss as his body covers me. My hands are grabbed by his and pinned above my head.
My head is screaming at me to make him let go, but my body is softening, molding to his will.
“You could learn how to cocktail-shake all fancy on Google or Wikihow, you know.”
Tyler pushes his hips into mine, his erection just millimeters away from my center. “If I’m shaking anything, it’ll be you, babe. Not a motherfucking cocktail.”
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
“The problem is you.” His voice is low, his mouth hovering just above my ear. There’s a scratchy tenderness to his words—a dangerous one.
“I don’t get it.”
“You never do.” He stands, releasing my wrists. I see him shake him head in the darkness.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I stand, indignant.
“When you know, I’ll tell you.” He pulls his car door open.
“That makes no sense!”
“Neither do you, Olivia. Neither do you.” He gets in, starts the engine, and reverses.
My purse falls to the ground, but I can’t move. I just stand, watching him leave the parking lot.
“Fuck you, Tyler Stone!” I yell after him. Fruitlessly. Pointlessly. He can’t hear me. I’m shouting aimlessly into the darkness, using its nothingness as an outlet for my frustrated anger.
I grab the purse from the ground and stomp upstairs. Straight past the elevator. Halfway up, I pull my shoes off and continue my stomping barefoot. I dig my key out and shove it in the door when Sean’s opens.
“Darling, this was delivered earlier for you.”
I turn and see that he’s holding a plain, white box in his hand. “Uh, thanks.”
“Everything okay?”
“Men are cuntnuggets,” I snap, taking the box.
“Oh, I know that feeling.” He rolls his eyes. “If you need me, I have wine.” He kisses my cheek and disappears into his apartment.
That’s tempting. Really fucking tempting.
Instead of giving in to a gorgeous Sauvignon temptation, I shove open my door and walk in. I dump the shoes and purse inside the door and set the box on my coffee table.
I stare at it accusingly. The last time I got a box like this, it was an unannounced set of underwear from Tyler. The set I happen to be wearing right now, actually.
Still, I can’t have no idea what this could be.
Neither the box nor label gives anything away. I shrug a shoulder, glance at Angus, who is now sitting next to me, and tear off the tape sealing each side.
I open the lid and shove aside the tissue paper. Pale-pink chiffon fills my gaze—not quite baby pink but not quite peach. With shaking hands, I reach out and grab the thick straps. I lift it out, standing as I do.
It’s low cut. Very low cut, actually. There’s no way I can wear a bra with it, but the flowing material from below the bustline falls until roughly my knees. I stare at it for…ages. I don’t know how long, but I only stop when my arms begin to ache.