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)
We arrive at my penthouse apartment a little after 2 a.m. Emerson is quiet when I lead her inside the sleek and modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows offering stunning views of the city. But she takes in the space, her expression curious and too adorable not to respond to it.
As the elevator doors snap shut, I grip her sweatshirt and tug her close before sealing my mouth over hers. I kiss her for several long seconds, tasting the meal we shared earlier and a flavor that is uniquely her.
It is a rough, needy embrace, but my remembrance of the last time someone got frisky in this elevator sees me pulling back before I’ve had close to my fill.
In case you’re wondering, I was not a participant in that romp. I simply instigated it.
After scanning my thumb on the fingerprint scanner, I push open the door of my penthouse apartment. Emerson enters first, her eyes wide with eagerness and a look I’ve missed the past ten years. She’s jealous. Why? I’m not sure. I’d just recognize that expression anywhere.
I thank god for a woman not afraid to speak her mind when Emerson asks, “How many girls have you brought here?”
“None,” I answer, meeting her gaze. “Except my sister. But she doesn’t count. Right?”
“Depends.”
Bile works up from my stomach to my throat as I silently grill her.
How can my sister not count?
Her expression is a cross of peeved and humored when she says, “Andrik and Zoya drove me to Ember’s. Zoya shared a handful of stories during the commute.”
I cringe while recalling how I handed Zoya my number and the keys to my penthouse last year. Cut me some slack. At the time, I didn’t know she was my sister. I had an inkling she was someone special, but it was in a platonic, non-creepy way.
There’s only one woman I’ve had an instant obsession with.
She is standing in front of me with furrowed brows.
After placing down an ornament on the mantel, Emerson twists to face me. “Did Zoya tell you what happened that night?”
“Not in explicit detail, but I got the gist.”
She smiles at the disgust on my face before pacing closer. “Not the parts that include Andrik… though you’re more than welcome to share if you need to get them off your chest.” I screw up my nose, sending her laughter echoing throughout the penthouse. “More the events leading up to the main event.”
“They’re just as X-rated,” I say with a laugh, willing to do anything to stop me from being sick.
Emerson continues as if I never spoke. “The scene where they arrived at your apartment to a woman on her knees, naked and eager.”
I step back, shocked. “What?” When she nods, I speak at a million miles an hour. “A woman was here, in my penthouse, naked?”
Her nod continues. “And posed in an extremely submissive way.”
She couldn’t have shocked me more if she had slapped me. “I swear on my mother’s grave…” My words trail off when I recall I can no longer use that analogy. My mother is alive. Not close to living, but very much alive. “I’ve never invited anyone here. Except Zoya, but she doesn’t count, and it wasn’t like that…” I struggle to finish what I had planned to be a lengthy plea when I realize it isn’t jealousy now burning Emerson’s cheeks. It is understanding.
What. The. Fuck.
“Why aren’t you pissed?”
She saunters close, her swinging hips effortlessly seducing me. “Why would I be? You said you had no clue she was here.”
“And you believe me?”
I’m confident I am dreaming when Emerson nods. “Yep.” While smiling at my shocked expression, she nudges her head to the kitchen. “Hungry?”
Too stunned to speak, I nod.
“Good.” I’m hard in an instant when she reaches for the crotch of my jeans and lowers the zipper. “Because once you’ve finished dipping my calories into the negative, you’ll need to feed me.”
She pushes me back until I land on the sofa with a thud before she frees my cock from my pants and arrows her lips toward the head.
Hours later, sexually gorged and in a carbohydrate coma, Emerson lies in the crook of my arm, rolling the coin I stole from the jukebox before Lynx could bank it through her fingers. She’s naked—how she should be every damn day of her life—and a satisfied smirk is on her face.
Although I’m still curious about her earlier confession, I can get answers about the stranger in my house by requesting the video footage covering every inch of the penthouse floor. Only one person can answer this snippet of curiosity.
“Does that mean your mom knows about us?” I nudge my head to the coin frozen between her index finger and middle finger before lowering my eyes to her sweat-drenched face. We ate more than we fucked the past hour, but dessert is strenuous when the ultimate treat comes in body parts.