Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
But my body aches. Not in a bad way, but in the way that makes you want to keep finding new ways to ache. My hips are sore. The inside of my thighs feel stretched, bruised with the memory of hands that gripped a little too tight. My asshole and my pussy both throb, a deep, satisfied pulse that shows no signs of abating. There’s a faint, oblong mark at my left hipbone, where Trevor must have pressed me into the mattress and left the print of his thumb. I touch it now, tracing it with a wet fingertip, and it zings up my spine with pleasure.
I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than this bruise. I hope it lasts all week. That’s how much I’m infatuated this man.
I tip my head back into the water, and the world goes muffled, like I’m at the bottom of a pool. There’s an urge to keep sinking, to see if I can slide beneath the surface and just vanish, white and boneless and weightless. But then the phone lights up and buzzes, a flat, angry noise that cuts through the calm like a rescue helicopter. I blink, water streaming off my lashes, and grab the phone with damp fingers before it can buzz a second time.
It’s Trevor, of course. There’s no text, just a direct FaceTime call, because that’s how he is: always live, always immediate.
I accept the call, propping the phone against a bottle of shampoo.
His face fills the screen, all angular bone and masculine stubble, the oceanic blue of his eyes even more intense in bad office lighting. There’s a city skyline behind him, but I can’t tell if it’s real or a Zoom background.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, the word surrounding my heart like a soft blanket.
I wipe my nose, realize I must look wild—hair a dripping mass, eyes unfocused, skin flushed from heat.
“Hi,” I say, and my voice comes out dreamy, half-melted.
Trevor clocks the look instantly, and one eyebrow goes up just a millimeter. “You enjoying yourself?”
“Very much,” I say, and I mean it. I arch my neck, letting my head loll against the porcelain edge, and hope he can see how relaxed I am.
“Good,” he says, but there’s a twitch in his jaw that means this is about to turn. “I forgot to mention it last night, but there’s a real estate broker coming by today, in twenty minutes actually. To look at the penthouse. It’s been booked for weeks and it’s too late to reschedule. He’s probably already on his way.”
I blink, the fog of pleasure thinning a little. “In twenty minutes?”
“Yeah. Shouldn’t take long. He’ll just walk through, take some notes, maybe a few pictures. Standard stuff. But I wanted to let you know because obviously, a stranger’s going to be walking through our home.”
My heart shudders because he just referred to the apartment as “ours” and I smile with utter joy. Then I nod, still half-wet, half-wild, fully naked under the water.
“Sure, I’ll get out so he or she doesn’t find me en flagrante in the master bath.” I have to suppress a laugh.
Trevor must see it in my eyes. He gives a smile.
“Definitely make sure he doesn’t see anything, Kayleigh,” he says, with a gentleness he reserves just for me. “Just smile and be polite. He won’t linger. I’ll be home soon enough.”
I nod again, this time with more certainty. “No problem.”
“Great. Thanks, baby.” He pauses, the silence stretching just long enough to make it intimate. Then: “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”
The call ends.
For a moment, the room is silent again, but the silence is different now. The old calm is gone because damn, I have to get up. I lay back in the water, staring at the candle flame, and try to imagine how a normal person would handle this.
A normal person would get out of the bath and put some clothes on. That’s what I have to do.
With a sigh, I climb out of the bath, the air sharp on my skin. I wrap myself in one of Trevor’s towels—so thick and heavy it feels like a weighted blanket—and stand in front of the vanity mirror.
I take inventory. My body is pink and shining, flushed from the heat. There are more bruises than I realized: one on my ribcage, a couple on my inner thighs, the perfect print of a massive hand at my left shoulder. My hair is a mess, but a good mess. My lips are still red and pouty, and my eyes look huge, innocent and yet now with a womanly air that wasn’t there even a few months ago.
For a second, I think about putting on make-up, but then decide against it. The broker doesn’t care what I look like, and even if he does, I’m not here for him.