Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90009 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90009 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Every nerve ending is on fire, my body flooding with sensations. The heat between my thighs is unbearable, and the slickness coating my skin has me squirming with desperate need. I’ve never felt anything like this edge-of-insanity, can’t-think-straight kind of arousal that pulses through me like a second heartbeat.
And the person who did this to me?
Steele.
The same guy who used to pass me tissues during rom-coms, and eat half my fries when he thought I wasn’t looking. Now he’s the man who just had his fingers buried inside me with expert control before leaving me hanging on the edge of oblivion like it was nothing.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, needing to see him.
Really see him.
And I do.
For the first time, I’m aware of everything that’s been simmering beneath the surface of our friendship.
He looks calm. Composed. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he watches the elevator numbers crawl toward the penthouse, like he didn’t just turn my world upside down in the front seat of his car.
I want to scream.
Why isn’t he slamming me against the elevator wall?
Or kissing me?
Or finishing what he started?
I’m seconds away from begging when the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Relief floods through me as I bolt into the penthouse.
But Steele takes his sweet damn time.
The man is unhurried.
Unbothered.
Completely in control.
I turn just in time to see him waltz into the living room, calm as ever, unlike me, whose body is still trembling and soaked from the ride over.
He pours himself a bourbon before pulling a cigar from the humidor and clipping the end.
“What are you doing?” I blurt, nearly dancing in place.
He glances over his shoulder, then strikes a match and lights the cigar with the same precise control he seems to use with everything else in his life. He takes a pull, and the ember glows to life before he exhales a stream of smoke that unfurls in the air between us.
“Enjoying a bourbon,” he says, “and a cigar.”
He lifts the glinting crystal glass in his hand again before taking a sip and letting the silence settle for a beat. “Do you want one?”
“No.” I lick my lips and shift again. “I thought…”
My words trail off. I have no idea how to finish them. I’m still standing here, flushed and aching, while he’s cool and unhurried, puffing on a cigar like we’ve got all night.
“What, Lilah?” he asks, his tone razor-sharp but patient as he settles on the sleek sectional. “What did you think?”
I press my thighs together as the ache continues to pulse low in my belly. “That we would…” I trail off again, heat flooding my face.
He tips his head, eyes hooded behind a curtain of smoke. “I think we should talk about the rules first.”
Rules?
The word slams into me with more force than I expect.
“Rules?” I echo, blinking.
“Yes.”
“What rules?”
He sets his bourbon on the side table, the crystal clinking against the glass. Then he leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, cigar balanced between two fingers. Smoke spirals lazily upward, drifting between us.
The moment stills, and it’s just the two of us, suspended in the tension.
“Whatever I tell you to do… you do,” he says, voice low, firm, and edged with something darker. A command disguised as an offer.
My mouth opens, then closes again as I falter. The room suddenly feels warmer, the air heavier. The ache between my legs reignites like a spark catching on dry leaves.
But still, I hesitate.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
That question lands with quiet impact but carries weight.
My answer is instant. “Of course I do.”
Something in his gaze gentles, but only for a second. There’s still steel beneath it. He leans back again, smoke trailing from his mouth in a cloud that rises toward the ceiling. The rich, heady scent of it mixes with the bourbon and the heat gathering between us until anticipation thrums in every nerve.
“Then it shouldn’t be an issue,” he murmurs. “Whatever I do, or tell you to do, is with your pleasure in mind. I’ll never take anything you’re not willing to give. But if we’re doing this, I want you open to everything I have to offer. Do you understand?”
My pulse pounds so hard I’m afraid he can hear it.
“Yes,” I breathe, my voice nearly swallowed by the moment.
He nods once, a slow, deliberate dip of his head. “Good.”
There’s a beat of silence as he lifts the glass again, sipping before adding, “And after this—whatever this becomes—we remain friends. We go back to what we were, if that’s what you want. No pressure. No guilt. No fallout.”
“What if you change your mind?”
His eyes cut to mine, sharp and steady. “That’s not going to happen.”
The conviction in his answer cuts through the remaining fog of doubt.
“Are we in agreement, then?”