Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
No, not a wall. A door.
We should stop. But the words are only in my head, our mouths fused and my knee sliding up his thigh. My hands twist his shirt and slide through his hair, greedy and grasping.
Then, from somewhere, comes the sound of a lock turning over. I’m too far gone to care where or why when Matt pulls his mouth from mine and slides me unceremoniously to one side. My mouth falls open in silent protest as I watch him step back from the door—the opening door—his expression turning from dark-eyed want to one of bewilderment.
“So terribly sorry.” His accent is suddenly very posh and very British. “I don’t know what happened there. One minute I’m walking along the hallway, and the next, I’m almost on my arse. I must’ve tripped over the bloody carpet!”
I press my hand to my mouth to stop myself from giggling. Or asking if he’s into amateur dramatics. Because that was surely dramatic.
“Okay, sure,” a masculine voice offers hesitantly. “Well, you take it easy.”
“Thank you. And you.” Matt kind of salutes and spins on his heel.
I begin a slow round of applause as the door clicks closed. Matt grins and gives a theatrical bow.
“You were convincing,” I say, pushing from the wall. Hips swaying obviously as I saunter closer and reach up to tidy his hair. “Almost convincing.” I allow my gaze to dip to below his belt. “I’m not so certain there’s any disguising that.”
“Sure there is,” he replies, all silky toned. “Come with me, and I’ll let you watch it disappear.”
A swipe of the key, the click of the lock, and my stomach turns weightless in anticipation.
“Ladies first,” he says, pushing the door wide.
“It’s a nice philosophy.” I deliver my taunting response over my shoulder.
His low chuckle. “One I live by.”
“I guess I’m a lucky girl.”
The suite’s decor is tasteful but traditional, with a little French thrown in. A pair of pale Louis-style chairs and a coffee table flanked by low ottomans, the open door to my right leading to the bedroom. Because that would be too obvious, I cross the room to stand by the darkened window, wondering if I should flirt some more, pour us a drink, close the curtains—any or all of the above.
The door closes. Matt’s jacket comes off and is abandoned to the back of the couch. One hand slung low in his pocket, he crosses the room while watching me with such intensity that I shiver.
“I have something I need to say. Something to tell . . .” His feet come to a stop at the same time as his words, maybe something to do with the way I’ve loosened my dress at the waist.
I make a small sound when the silk slides over my breasts, tantalizing my already-aching nipples through my bra.
“You were saying?” I’m not normally this brazen. At least, not in the bedroom. But then, I’ve never slept with an expert before. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I want him.
“Yes.” He gives his head a shake, like a horse shaking off flies. “Yeah,” he adds, his throat working with a deep swallow. I want to press my lips there. Press my teeth over the cording of muscles and bite. “Ryan, there’s—”
A roll of my shoulders, and my dress flutters to the floor.
“Fuck me.”
My core twists with need at the way he drinks me in, his gaze roaming hungrily over my La Perla lingerie. Green, to match my dress, the set was a treat to myself to cheer me up. It didn’t work, or so I thought. It’s sure making me happy now.
“You were saying?” I positively strut across the floor.
“Yeah . . .” His eyes. My breasts. It’s a beautiful thing. “I was saying . . .”
“Are you married?” Coming to a stop in front of him, I tip onto my toes and slide my arms around the back of his neck. If he says yes, I’ll adjust. And choke him.
“No, I’m not.” His big hands cup my hips. Slide down to my ass.
“Are you committed in some other way?” I’m thinking specifically of a black Amex and sugar mamas and handsome, younger sugar babes. Though he seems a little on the mature side, a little too sophisticated for that title. Sugar zaddy? The tux, his air. But all those thoughts dissolve as he pulls my body tight against his.
“I wouldn’t be here if I was.”
The solid press of him does wild things to my pulse, my blood. Not that he realizes as I press my finger to his lips and coolly whisper, “Then it can wait.”
“I don’t think—”
I give a teasing sway of my hips, and the brush of my soft to his hard elicits the sexiest sound from him. “Less thinking.”
His reply is a ragged-sounding curse as his grip tightens on my ass.