Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 41105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
I’d never be anywhere near it again…
“Pick those up for me,” Ryder says, pointing to the stack. “Tell me which ones are real.”
Obliging, I flip through the stack slowly, letting my thumb touch the edge of each one. Then I flip them over and flip through them slower, not even needing to run through the usual list of fifty tests.
“They’re all fake,” I say.
“You barely checked them, Miss Jane…”
“There’s no reason to check them any further.” I set them down. “They’re not real.”
Ryder stares at me for several moments before signaling to the Grey Man.
The man collects the stack and feeds them into the machine.
It whirs and beeps, flipping the bills backward and forward, and then it flashes red.
For counterfeit.
“Very good,” Ryder says, looking at his watch. “Mr. Johnson here will verify your work when you’re done checking the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Yes, Miss Jane.” He gestures to the boxes that have damn near filled the entire room at this point. “Keep the real ones on the right side of the beam, and the fake ones on the left.”
“Checking this many—assuming that some actually are viable—would take me at least three days. Minimum.”
“Good. There’s a bedroom suite behind the exit door,” he says. “I’d prefer it if you only slept when you absolutely have to. I have a deadline to meet, and three days sounds decent enough, so you can get started now.”
“No.”
The entire room instantly stills.
The men stop pushing boxes mid-stroll. Mr. Johnson’s jaw unhinges, but it never hits the floor.
“No, what, Miss Jane?” Ryder narrows his eyes.
“No, I can’t get started now,” I say. “I can start tomorrow after I get my full day off, and after I contemplate whether or not I want to get involved with something that might get me sent to prison.”
His jaw ticks, but everything else in this room remains frozen.
“Am I asking for too much?” I speak a bit louder. “Haven’t I done enough for you—on your terms—already?”
“I need everyone to leave this room and get off this floor.” Ryder’s voice is clipped. “Now.”
His men exit without hesitation. No glances. No questions.
The double doors slam hard behind Mr. Johnson, and only me and Ryder are left.
He doesn’t move at first. He just watches me like he’s weighing something. Then he starts strolling toward me—slow and deliberate.
With every step he takes forward, I try to take one back, but I can’t move. His haze is pinning me to the spot, and before I know it, he’s standing right in front of my chair.
“You’re not allowed to speak to me like that in front of my staff,” he says. “You do that again, and they’ll start thinking you’re a weakness of mine.”
“I—”
“You’ve interrupted me enough.” He cuts me off, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, pulling me to my feet. Then to him. His mouth claims mine—hot, bruising, a demand I can’t deny.
He turns me toward the table, sweeping aside papers and pushing me flat against the cold wood. His hand slides between my thighs, fingers stroking with just enough pressure to unravel me slowly.
“Promise me you won’t talk to me like that again,” he growls against my throat, lips brushing heat into my skin.
He pushes inside, hard and unrelenting, then stills. His fingers tighten on my hips.
“You come when I say. Not before.”
He moves again—slow, brutal thrusts that steal the breath from my lungs. Then he stops. Holds.
Another thrust. Then stillness.
“Say it.”
“Say what?” I gasp, dizzy.
“That you’re mine. That you’ll follow the rules.”
I don’t speak fast enough.
He pulls out entirely, letting the cool air hit where I need him most. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathe. “I’ll follow the rules.”
He slides back into me, thrusts harder, deeper, until my climax coils tight, until I’m desperate, trembling.
Then he stops again.
I sob. He waits.
“Please,” I whisper.
Only then does he let me fall. My orgasm tears through me like fire, and I shatter beneath him, fingers clawing at the table for balance.
His forehead presses to mine, chest heaving. Then he slowly eases out of me.
He takes my hand and leads me toward the far side of the room, through a side door I hadn’t noticed before. The private bedroom suite.
I stop in the entryway, awestruck. The room is massive—floor-to-ceiling windows blacked out with heavy drapes, a chandelier overhead, and a king-sized bed made up in midnight gray.
He guides me into the connected bathroom, turns on the tub, and adds a splash of soap. The water warms quickly, bubbles rising until they spill over the lip and onto the tile.
Without a word, he undresses me. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Then he shuts off the water and steps back just enough to speak.
“Four days is as long as I can give you. You’ll need to try to finish before then…”
“Yes…” is all I can manage. I’m still floating somewhere high.
He studies me, expression unreadable, as I sink slowly into the tub.