Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I feel the laser focus of his stare on my ass as I bend over and pull the cloth long.
He doesn’t offer to help.
I just have to ask. “Did you remove the light fixture yourself?”
He frowns. “Of course.”
“Wow.”
He lifts his brows. “You find that impressive?”
“Well, you don’t strike me as the handyman type.”
He gives a faint shrug. “My father was the definition of toxic masculinity,” he says. “There is no man-job I wasn’t forced to learn by the time I was twelve. Removing a sconce took me thirty seconds.”
Hmm. I find that surprising. I assumed he was spoon-fed with silver and never forced to do a moment of manual labor. I file this new tidbit about him away to chew on later.
I keep working while he looks until he finally has had enough of being ignored and walks away, down the hall to what I presume is his bedroom.
Don’t think about his bed. Or what it would be like to be tied to it.
I wonder if he’s kinky like that. He’s beyond dominant–he’s domineering. But, as Madi and I conjectured, it could mean it’s all about him. To tie me to the bed would be more about me.
Oh God. I need to stop this train of thought because I am getting more turned on by the minute.
I pull out a measuring tape and measure the wall, then set the ladder up against it, and make a light grid line of pencil marks.
This is the first thing I learned when I started painting murals. It’s hard to get the full perspective on your work when you’re working up close but creating something large-scale to be viewed at a distance. If you divide your initial sketch into grids, then make the same number of grids on the wall, you can easily blow up your vision. It’s like creating pixels in digital images.
Once I have my grid lines set up, I take out my charcoal pencil and start sketching the outline of the largest flower on the wall.
The Boomtown Rats song “I don’t like Mondays” plays in my ears, and I hum absently as I fall into the groove.
As the flower takes form, I get lost in the work, forgetting where I am. Forgetting I’m not alone. I don’t realize I’m singing out loud until I hear what sounds like a groan from the bedroom.
Billy
She’s singing.
Fucking singing.
And fuck me, she has the voice of a damn angel.
Except rather than lifting me, rather than transporting me, the beauty of her voice produces a ferocious wave of lust.
Add to that, the fact that she’s wearing the exact white string bikini I pictured her in when I was imagining her on the beaches of Monaco, and my pants are way too tight at the crotch.
My canines sink into my lower lip as I stifle a groan.
I shouldn’t have stayed home today. Her nutmeg scent filters everywhere in my penthouse–and more than that–I swear I caught the scent of her arousal when she arrived.
I walk into the en suite bathroom and turn on the faucet to cover any more groans. I can’t take it. Either I blow off some steam, or I’m going to do something inadvisable to that human.
Something that involves slicing those overalls to shreds and pulling her miniscule bikini triangles to the sides to get at those luscious breasts.
I unzip my trousers and shove my hand into my boxer briefs to grip the base of my cock.
She got aroused the moment she walked into my penthouse. I had planned to ignore her, and then I caught the scent, and my wolf nearly pounced.
I squeeze my dick tight and slide my fist down to the head and back.
She wore that bikini top for me. I pump my fist faster. Fuck, she definitely wore that top for me. And her nipples were hard when I prowled close.
So she’s as physically attracted to me as I am to her.
That shouldn’t be a surprise. She gave me shit from the first time I met her, but it always had a sensual edge to it. It wasn’t the type of cold disdain I might have expected considering I had hurt her best friend. There was heat coming off her, but not the rage-filled kind.
The smoldering kind.
Like she knew she was a smoking hot goddess and wanted me to recognize it at the same time she showed me how little she thought of me.
My dick is rail-hard, balls heavy with cum. I beat off, letting myself go to my dirtiest thoughts.
Aubrey, naked and on her knees, her pillowy lips spanning the width of my cock.
Me feeding it into her wet mouth as she plays with my balls.
Fuck. Yeah…fate. Fuck.
My balls draw up tight and contract. I’d come on her face. No, on those breasts she taunted me with this morning.
Blood seeps in my mouth from the gashes in my lip, and I relish the pain. The moment of focus it gives me to…