Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 31081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
“Quinn?”
I look up from my lap. I’d become lost to my thoughts. “I think he’s the one,” I state.
“You know I don’t recommend this route. It can be a dangerous set back if things don’t go as planned.”
“I know your concerns.” I smile.
Nerves ricochet through my body, rattling my bones as I pace the dining room floor. I can’t believe I invited him to my home without the contract in place. Maybe we should have done this at his office or somewhere with other people. I’m not afraid of him, but the nagging warning never invite a stranger into your home dances with flashing lights in my mind.
“Asked for it. Idiot.”
I hate that the thoughts are even there, that the rules have been told to me over and over. In our society, women are blamed and made to take measures to prevent sexual assaults. Like the attackers need us to help them not to rape. My inner thoughts pop like a pin in a balloon when the doorbell rings through the house. I brush my palm down my blouse and go to answer the door.
Blue, piercing eyes track over my body before words leave his mouth, a slight tug of his lip giving away his amusement. “Nice shirt.” His voice is deep, but soft like velvet over silk. I know he’s mocking me for my attire. My blouse is floral and picked from the older lady section of Macy’s. It’s also buttoned up to my throat, cutting off my airway.
“Seven on the dot,” I state, allowing him to enter.
“Time management is important. It’s rude to be late,” he says, slipping out of his jacket.
“I’ll take that. Please, go make yourself comfortable.” I suck in a couple needed breaths when he hands it to me and looks around.
Feeling stupid, I undo the top button on my blouse and seek him out. He’s in the living area looking over some pictures I have out. My stomach drops when I see him holding a photo taken at my graduation. His brows crash as he stares at the image. His eyes shrink to blue slashes as he holds it up, pinning me to the spot with his glare.
“You asking me wasn’t random. You know my brother?” he growls.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I round my shoulders and march over to him, taking the picture and placing it back on the mantel. “I knew your brother, yes. That was years ago.”
“So, he’s not involved in this?”
“What? No, I haven’t seen Rocko since graduation, and we weren’t friends.” Maybe that’s a bit harsh. “He didn’t like me, and the feeling was mutual.” I shrug.
He chuckles at that, a real laugh that makes butterflies dance in my stomach. It’s a beautiful sound. Honest. “Rupert was an asshole in college. If you didn’t put out, he didn’t have time for you. Don’t take it personally.”
“What makes you think I didn’t put out for Rupert?” I bite my lip to stifle my laugh. “And Rupert? Seriously?”
“He was named after our mother’s grandfather. He hated it with a passion. Made everyone call him Rocko. Told people his name was Ricardo after that soccer player.”
I go to open my mouth to respond, but he moves toward me, filling the four feet of space between us with his large, intoxicating body. His finger reaches out to lift my chin. “And I know you didn’t put out because he would have bragged about it. He never mentioned a Quinn.”
“He used to tell you everyone he had sex with?” I ask, incredulous.
Smirking, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, releasing me from his hold. “You’d be surprised how little he had to tell,” he replies. “Shall we eat and talk business?”
“Of course,” I agree, gesturing toward the dining room. “I hope you like Chinese food.”
“Wow, you cook Chinese?” He eyes the neatly set out food.
“No, I order Chinese. They deliver.”
If I cooked, he might not live long enough to help me with my plans.
There’s that beautiful laugh again.
“So, is that a deal-breaker for you? Me knowing your brother in college?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Tell me about yourself, Quinn.” He dishes us out some food.
I sip my water and shrug. “What do you want to know?”
“How long have you had fantasies about being taken by force?”
I almost spit my water out over the table, but manage to catch myself and swallow. Wiping my mouth, I squirm a little in my chair.
“If you can’t even speak about it, how do you expect to play it out?” He raises a brow. There’s no amusement in his tone or mockery.
“I’ve always had different needs than my peers. I once told a friend about a dream I had, and she was mortified. Ever since, I know to keep my thoughts to myself where sex is concerned.”
“What was the dream?” he asks so casually, like old friends talking about the weather.