Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“I know it sounds strange and—” she begins.
“Stop talking.”
Her breath catches as I grab her by the waist and pull her closer, closing the space between us. My voice drops, low and filthy.
“Lean back and wrap your legs around my shoulders,” I say. “Then let me show you exactly how many times I can make you come before we even think about touching a bed.”
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
The return to New York is marked by a blur of endless work, blurred with stolen moments of Lucian devouring me on his desk.
And I finally force myself to admit just how much his world demands of him. The phone never stops buzzing, emails pour in by the hundreds, contracts appear in stacks that regenerate like hydra heads. Every minute of his schedule is spoken for, and he moves through it with a precision that’s almost frightening.
I’ve never envied a billionaire less. And I’ve never understood him more.
No one could keep up with this and still be kind. Not really. His brusqueness, his short temper, the way he slices conversations into orders—it all makes a kind of sense when you see the mountain of responsibility he carries alone.
Almost.
I remind myself that no workload justifies being a bully.
Whether he has an amazing mouth or not…
By Thursday, we’re touring the newly remodeled lounge; its pictures will be featured in the spreads for the big IPO party.
The furniture gleams under industrial lights, sleek nap pods line one wall, and a ridiculous juice bar has been installed like this is some kind of luxury resort.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Penelope beams at us like a proud parent. “The employees will love it, productivity will soar, and the press will have a field day. But this is only the beginning, Mr. Pearson. We’ll need to look into childcare, an on-site gym, maybe even wellness retreats. It’s all about shaping a brand-new culture.”
Lucian’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
I glance at him, watching the way his shoulders stiffen with her every word, and the realization starts to click.
Not all of this is his fault. Some of it is being forced on him. The shareholders, Penelope, the board—they’re all pulling strings, and he’s the one tangled in the web.
For a moment, I feel a flicker of sympathy, like I’m seeing a crack in the armor he wears so tightly.
Then he catches me looking, and the smirk that curves his mouth makes the sympathy vanish as quickly as it came.
Okay. No. It can’t be.
He’s still the devil deep down.
THE CEO
LUCIAN
“Dahlia bouquet for a Miss Kendall Clarke?” A deliveryman steps into my office on a Wednesday, armed with the largest pack of blooms to date.
She should’ve dumped him by now…
“You can bring them over here,” I say. “Thank you.”
He nods and places them on the edge of my desk, gently fluffing them and freeing the envelope before walking away.
I brush my fingers over the envelope, tempted to tear it open myself, the paper crinkling under my grip. But the door opens before I can, and Kendall walks in.
She smiles at the flowers as if they belong, then settles into her chair like nothing about this is strange.
I can’t take the suspense any longer.
“Kendall,” I say, tapping the side of the vase hard enough to make the water ripple. “Who the hell are these flowers from, and why do they keep getting delivered?”
“Um…because someone sends them to my job?”
“Is this someone your boyfriend?” I cross my arms. “Does he know who’s been devouring your pussy?”
She blinks.
“If I knew you liked flowers this much, I would have some delivered for you, too. Except I’d probably send them daily instead of weekly…”
A slow smile spreads across her face and she stands, walking toward my desk, hips swaying just enough to remind me of every reason she’s a distraction.
“Well, I do like flowers,” she says. “And I keep them all in a room with a back balcony at my brownstone, so I can reseed them when they’re gone.”
“That’s very nice, but that’s not answering who they’re coming from.”
“My mom,” she says, smiling and tearing off the tag. Her fingers fidget with the edge until it shreds in half. “It’s a subscription she started when I…” Her voice trails off and she shows me the note.
No matter how hard it gets, don’t forget…
You’re not just working for yourself anymore.
Do it for her.
“Her?” I wonder, but I don’t press. Yet.
“I’m also working so hard so I can retire my mom within the next five years,” she says. “She double-mortgaged our house to put me through college and grad school, so…I owe her the world, you know?”
“That’s very sweet,” I say. “Very trusting of her to do that for you…”
“I’m shocked you know what ‘trust’ is.” She pushes my shoulder playfully, but her eyes flick down as if she’s not sure she should’ve said it. “Rumor has it you don’t trust anyone anymore.”