Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
The landing of the primary suite is gorgeous, with a working fireplace and Egyptian silks. I can’t enjoy it, though, since the moans of a man in the midst of ecstasy are weakening its luxuriousness.
I also don’t have a second to spare. Roy isn’t known for his stamina.
With my iPhone held in front of me, recording every step I take, I burst into the main room of the primary suite and then jackknife my upper body toward a monstrous four-poster bed.
“You cheating piece of shit…”
My words trail off when I find a bed in pristine, untouched condition. The rose petals the check-in clerk mentioned earlier are scattered across the unrumpled bedding, and a bottle of champagne is cooling in a bucket of ice, but not a single person can be seen.
A god, though. There’s one of them.
He isn’t on the bed. He’s sitting in a wingback chair on my left, snarling like I’m breaking into his apartment instead of the honeymoon suite my philandering husband booked for a weekend fuck-fest with his mistress.
The clerk tried to act nonchalantly while requesting ID to confirm that I was the Mrs. Martin she checked in a couple of hours ago.
The world’s best actor would have had difficulty schooling her features while matching my license with the video footage of a barely legal blonde with legs that go for miles cozied up to Roy’s side.
The clerk remade my card as requested before announcing she has security on standby if I require assistance, but the majority of the “busted on camera” stunt I hoped to pull off was left to me.
After numerous swallows, I ask, “Is this… I…”
I can’t talk. I needed a bit of wetness to subdue the dryness the stranger’s deliriously handsome face inspired, but spit is pooling in my mouth like an endless river.
My drooling can’t be helped. The stranger is stunning in a way that demands a stupor state. His hair is dark, his eyes are light, and tattoos skate the thick lines of his arms and peek out the top of his rolled-up-at-the-sleeves dress shirt.
Since his eyes are scanning my body as adeptly as mine are drinking him in, I take my time assessing all his favorable points.
His rigid jawline is covered with wiry black scruff, his buttoned-up shirt is undone to just below a pendant on a thick chain, and over two dozen tattoos are on his left arm alone.
His attire is pricy and his shoes are designer, but his neck tattoos give him a risky edge a Vegas businessman would struggle to pull off. He screams dangerous. Murderer, even, but I can’t stop staring.
I’ve never had the pleasure of standing across from such a sexy, alluring man, and I don’t want to give up a single second of ogling to consider an emotion as pitiful as fear.
This stranger deserves his own category of hot.
He is above and beyond the drool and flame emojis.
When the stranger coughs, forcing my eyes back to his panty-wetting face, I hook my thumb to the lower level of the suite. “Sorry. Ah.” Get with the program, Miranda. “Is this the honeymoon suite?”
The door buzzed green before I entered.
I’m certain it did.
Unless it was unlocked, and I was burned up with too much anger to pay attention to the color of a flickering light.
I stop hyperfixating on how easy it is to get trampled when you’re hell-bent on revenge when the stranger answers my question. “This is the honeymoon suite.”
Even his voice is sexy. It is a mix of Russian and American, and it rolls over my skin like liquid ecstasy before minimizing my thigh gap. Like it could get any smaller.
“One of four on this floor alone.”
My eyes pop as my throat works hard to swallow. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I have the wrong room.”
I choke on my spit when the stranger replies in a way I never anticipated. “No, you don’t.”
He stands, doubling the output of my heart. He’s tall, easily six foot four, and the span of his shoulders is even more imposing since they’re no longer forced into the curved design of the overpriced armchair.
I watch in suspense as he moves closer. Each timed step doubles the output of my heart. I won’t mention the surge of pulses to the lower half of my body, or you’ll force me to sign Roy’s divorce proposal without pause for thought.
I’m close to doing that without prompting. I’d give everything to pretend he didn’t exist for an hour, to forget I ever agreed to marry him.
I would even be willing to make out I was the only one who broke the infidelity clause of our prenup.
That’s how much this stranger’s presence spikes my blood pressure and has me thinking recklessly.
I’m not the only one feeding off the tension. I suck in a desperate breath when the stranger’s clipped demand breaks through the deep pounding of my pulse in my ears. “Knees. Now.”