Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I stare. Is this man serious? But with a flick of his notepad, he’s in full “research” mode.
He sits, legs wide, pen in hand, and gestures for me to take the chair across from him. I do, but I can’t meet his eyes.
He starts: “Did you intend to distract me by not wearing panties?”
I can’t tell if he’s still in character or not, so I answer truthfully: “Yes.” My face is hot. “I thought it would, you know, up the ante a little.”
He writes this down.
“Was it effective?”
My laugh is shaky. “Obviously.”
He taps his pen against the pad, blue eyes so sharp they might draw blood. “And the bending over to show me your gleaming cunt—was that planned?”
I nod, mute.
He jots another note, then glances up. “What were you expecting to happen?”
My hands are in my lap, squeezing hard. “I guess I thought you’d… touch me? Or, like, say something dirty. Or maybe just ignore it. I didn’t think you’d…”
“Suck your pussy until you lost the ability to speak?”
My body jolts at the direct words. “Yeah.”
Talon’s quiet for a moment, looking over his notes. Then: “Did you like it?”
I should be mortified, but instead I’m proud. “I loved it. It was perfect and amazing and so incredible.” I swallow. “I’ve never… no one’s ever…”
He leans back, satisfied. “Good,” he says, and the word echoes in my bones.
He makes a few more notes, then closes the pad and stands. He’s all business now, not a trace of the savage that broke me earlier today.
“I appreciate your effort, and you did well today, Miss Vreeland. I can already tell that our roleplaying is going to be very successful.” Then, he gets up and leaves, like I’m just another employee and not the girl who came all over his face as he moaned with satisfaction.
I watch him leave, stunned at how easily he compartmentalizes. My own brain is soup. My body is still humming, every nerve on fire. I close my eyes and let myself feel it, replaying the scene in my mind, reliving every lick, suck, and bite.
I should feel used, but I don’t. I feel seen. Worshipped. Ruined in a way I never knew I wanted.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, legs still trembling from the memory of Talon’s mouth on me. I want to text Simone, but of course, my phone has no service.
Instead, I reach for my journal and write:
Today, I learned there’s no such thing as “just acting.” Even when it’s for money, even when it’s supposed to be transactional, it’s still real. My body can’t tell the difference. Maybe my heart can’t either.
I’m still not sure if he’s using me, or if I’m using him. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
All I know is, I want Talon to do it again. I want him to make me soar, cry out, and come so hard that I forget my name. I want to revel in his closeness, and run my hands over his sculpted chest before taking his manhood in my mouth and making him come. And I want to do it again with him. And again. And again.
I close the journal, hide it under my pillow, and let myself drift into sleep, already hungry for the next roleplay … with the magnificent man who lives here.
7
CHAPTER SEVEN – THE BILLIONAIRE AND HIS SEXY SECRETARY
Talon
Ialways thought I was a disciplined man. For years, I lived and died by the clock, the word count, the gym sets logged in a battered composition notebook. Then Kat Vreeland crashed into my routine and destroyed any illusion of control I still had.
It’s been a week—seven days of this bizarre, wonderful, addicting arrangement. Every morning, I get up at five, make coffee, and write for three hours. That’s the rule. No phones, no distractions, not even her—especially not her, because if I let myself, I’d spend every waking minute watching the way she moves through the house, nibbling on leftovers from the fridge or curling up in a reading chair with her bare feet tucked under those thick thighs, her golden hair trailing over her narrow shoulders. She’s absolute temptation, and I’d die happy watching her every move.
But Kat’s always smiling sweetly. She never complains about the light housework, nor the few bits of editing I give her. She never asks for anything, not even a schedule. She just falls into my orbit, adapting to the pull of my gravity. By nine, we’re in the kitchen, me scribbling plot notes on the counter, her making pancakes or French toast or whatever the hell she thinks will get me to look at her just a second longer.
Afternoons are reserved for my so-called “research.” Roleplays, improvisations, scenarios with increasing degrees of risk and intimacy. The first day, Kat was a schoolgirl and I fucking blew a nut in the shower after kissing her wet twat. Then a nurse. Then a lost hiker. Each time, I threw her a new costume, a new set of rules, and waited to see if she’d break or surprise me. The curvy girl always surprises me with her innocence, yet willingness to play. She’s creative, imaginative, and yet docile at once, and I fucking love it. Sweet Lies deserves a bonus for sending me a girl so pliable.