Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
That I'm an imposter. Oh my God. I’m going to prison. Emma will have to visit me in prison.
"What would you like to drink?" he asks, breaking the silence, his voice low and smooth, like velvet, sending a shiver down my spine.
My brain is so scrambled I can't remember what Carolyn likes to drink—she did mention her poison of choice in the briefings, but no way can I access that information right now. Dear God. What do I do now?
"Whatever you’re having is fine," I mumble, keeping it vague, my words tumbling out a little too quickly.
Thank God, he shows no surprise. “Mmm…” He nods slowly and turns toward the decanter half filled with a deep amber liquid. The crystal stopper comes free, and he pours two fingers into two heavy tumblers, the glowing liquid glugging opulently. He pours as if he is not in any hurry. This is so weird. Carolyn told me many times that he couldn’t bear to spend any time at all with her. A disinterested man. A loveless marriage. A cold marital bed. When he turns back, the glasses are cradled in his large hands. He walks toward me with that worryingly unhurried stride. The room feels smaller with every step he takes.
He stops close, too close. The heat coming off him is immediate, warm skin, faint cedar, a masculine edge that makes my lungs forget how to work. His chest is a breath away from me; if I lean forward even an inch, his shirt would brush the thin straps of my sundress. He lifts the glass, and the scent of the whisky rolls out, peat smoke, old oak, a hint of sea salt, thick enough to coat the back of my throat before I even take a sip.
When his fingers graze mine, the contact is deliberate, lingering, the pads of his fingertips rough against my skin. A spark shoots straight up my arm and rushes down between my legs. The sexual chemistry is undeniable. I almost jerk back, but I don’t. I can’t.
He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he inhales, slow, deep, nostrils flaring just a fraction as he draws my scent in. His lashes lower, and when his voice comes, it’s lower, rougher, like the scotch has already coated his throat.
“Did you change your perfume as well?”
The question slides over me like a hand. I’m wearing the exact same perfume that Carolyn wears, two careful spritzes at my pulse points, but perhaps it reacts differently on my skin.
I shake my head. “No.”
“It smells warmer, softer, a little sweeter, like sun instead of ice.”
He’s noticing the difference, cataloguing it, and the realization makes my heart slam against my ribs.
I swallow, the lie coming out breathy. “It’s… my new moisturizer, I think.”
He doesn’t answer, just watches me lift the glass to my lips. The first sip is fire and smoke burning a path down my throat and blooming in my belly, pooling right alongside the other ache that’s been there since I entered this room. It’s spreading. Moving everywhere, in my tightening nipples, in the slick throb between my thighs, in the way my toes curl inside my sandals.
He gestures toward the Chesterfield, his voice velvet. “Have a seat.”
Swallowing, I sink into the cool leather, the sundress riding higher on my thighs. He doesn’t sit beside me. He takes the armchair opposite, close enough that his knees almost brush mine when he leans forward, glass dangling between his fingers. The lamplight cuts across his face, shadows carving the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone. He lifts the scotch, throat working as he swallows, and I watch the strong column of it, the way his Adam’s apple slides. My mouth goes dry.
Dear God. When is this torture going to be over?
I try to meet his eyes, but the second I do it feels as if the room tilts. He’s staring like he’s trying to peel the dress off me with his gaze alone, like he can see the flush crawling over my chest, the way my nipples have gone tight and visible beneath the thin material of my dress. A bizarre thought floods into my head: his mouth between my legs, the scrape of stubble, the relentless pressure of his tongue. I have to cross my legs hard, thighs pressing together to ease the sudden and insistent pulsing.
He finally speaks, his voice low and measured. “Are you happy with your new… look?”
His gaze drops, deliberate, to my breasts, lingering on the way the fabric clings, the faint outline of my nipples straining. Heat explodes through me, molten, humiliating, but so delicious. My breath catches, audible in the quiet room.
“Yes, I’m happy there were no complications,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper. “Just the usual… pain and healing.”
His eyes flick back to mine, dark, unreadable, but something hungry flickers there, something that makes my core clench hard enough that I almost whimper.