Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
This is the one part of my business I hate. The larcenous pricks who think they can take you for a row because you’re young, and in Emerson’s case, female. I’d be nowhere near as successful if I had tits instead of balls, and the knowledge pisses me off.
When Emerson’s eyes, now narrowed, return to my face, and she cocks a manicured brow, I reach for my wallet. “Do you take Amex?”
As her teeth get friendly with her bottom lip, she nods. “We do, but…”
I’m not a fan of delayed gratification—for anything. But it is worse with this woman.
“You don’t need to pay.” I mistake the sincerity in her tone when she snaps out, “I will remove its purchase from the funds I’ll transfer to you when you tell me how much I owe for the gift you allegedly purchased for me.”
I stare at her in shock, stunned by the harshness of her tone.
Is she joking? She can’t be mad. She has no right. I went on a limb to buy her a gift I knew she would love. The only reason I didn’t hand it over was because she left me. Yet she’s pissed at me?
Fuck that.
If she wants to be petty, I’ll show her petty.
“My share of this business is not for sale.”
She looks ready to blow her top. Her cheeks are red, her neck is flushed, and her nostrils are flaring.
She could only look more ravishing if she was moaning beneath me.
I give myself a stern talking-to before getting this train back on track. “But I am open to compromise.”
Emerson’s dazzling eyes sparkle as they dance between mine. “For what? I have nothing of value to offer you. Except perhaps…” Her words trail off as the heat on her neck stretches to her chest—her barely concealed chest since she’s wearing an extremely fitted and low-neckline shirt.
It’s fucking winter. Did she miss the memo?
Her tits didn’t. Her nipples are standing to attention, begging to be touched. Goose bumps dot her areolas, and I stare as if I have every right, as if I paid for the privilege.
Her game plan smacks into me as hard and fast as I once took her on the very desk wedged between us.
Emerson knows her appeal, and a long time ago, I folded every time she used it against me.
I’m older now.
Wiser.
And seconds from drooling on my fucking shoes.
Emerson’s breasts are centerfold worthy. They were the second thing I noticed about her, only cheated out of the top prize by a face too beautiful for any painter to replicate.
Emerson stops fighting the urge to lower her eyes to my crotch to assess if her plan is working when I say, “Marry me.”
Her eyes rocket to my face so fast that she makes me dizzy. “Huh?”
“Marry me,” I repeat. “Then, if you survive a year, I’ll sign over my share of the deed to you.”
Spit flies from her mouth when she pffts me. “I’d rather rot in hell.” She saunters around the desk, barges me aside, and then takes charge of the captain’s chair. “It’s no skin off my nose if you keep your share of my business. It isn’t like I’ll have to send you a small fortune every month.” She peers up at me, her eyes glistening with impudence. “At this rate, you’ll have to pay me to keep this place open.”
She acts as if that line didn’t hurt her to deliver as much as it did me to hear it.
She’s full of shit, and I know it.
That doesn’t mean I won’t partially fold, though.
“The deed… and a cash settlement.”
“Not interested,” she responds, not bothering to look up.
I make her interested in a deal I know she won’t be able to deny. “A cash settlement in advance, hefty enough to allow your mother to undertake a treatment option she hasn’t told you about because she knows how far you’d go to lasso the moon for her.”
Now I have her—hook, line, and fucking sinker.
I play it cool—just.
“You were willing to sell a piece of your body to the devil to save this”—I wave my hand around the office before guiding it down her scarcely covered body—“so how far are you willing to go to save your mother’s life?”
“I’d sell my soul to the devil,” she answers without pause for thought, her scorn announcing who she believes is the evil half of our duo.
For some fucked-up reason, she’s lumped the title with me.
“But not just the part he chewed up and spat out a decade ago. I’d give him every piece of me.”
I fight the urge to tell her I’m not the bad guy. I only harness the desire because our combined stubbornness will shunt us back to the start of our game.
Neither of us has time for that, and Inga’s schedule is even tighter.