Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Stick to English, my brain reminds me. Think—form words! Plant your flag in this patch of rocky ground. But this is what you do, my mind whispers. Shut down when boys are around. Except this is no boy. He’s all man.
“Help?” I give a nervous titter. “I’m totally lost. I wasn’t—”
“There’s no need to be embarrassed.”
My first instinct is to deny it, but keeping in character, I frown instead. His lashes are so long and sooty, and his gaze feels like a hook. And I’m the little fishy dangling on it.
“I should go back upstairs.” I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience as he strokes a wisp of hair from my cheek, gently sliding it behind my ear. “I came down here to find my friend but she… she isn’t here.”
“There’s no need to leave.”
“I can’t think where she might be.”
“Especially when they like to be watched.” His eyes flick momentarily behind me.
My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Those words I’m not supposed to understand seem to pound in the space between my legs.
“And you like to watch, I think.” I stiffen as his hand moves to my shoulder, his eyes softening. “No one here would judge. I’ll watch with you.”
The thought seems so shocking, but as the woman on the stage cries out, I find I’m already watching. Her hands flex by her sides, her body undulating with the blond’s touch, his hand barely concealed by her tiny knickers.
My heart shouldn’t be beating like this, and my breath shouldn’t match hers. And I shouldn’t allow my eyes to fall closed at a soft brush of a man’s breath across my neck.
“But the only person I’ll be watching is you.”
Oh…
My awareness of him feels so immense that I’m literally trembling. I notice I’m holding his forearm. Did I reach for it? Did he slide it around my waist? My fingers look so pale next to the fabric of his jacket, a snowy cuff and silver watch peeking out from under it.
“She’ll feel so hot against his fingers. So slippery.”
Somehow this sounds even more lurid in French. Something hot and wicked begins to swirl through my insides as though the woman’s excitement is somehow mine.
“Do you wish you were her?” His words shape themselves around my skin. “Do you wish I were him?”
Oh God, yes. Did I say that or think it? Did he notice how my knees almost became weak?
On stage, she begins to moan and writhe, the press of the blond’s arm the only thing keeping her upright. She convulses, her hand tightening in his hair, her excitement intense. I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for her to reach her peak almost as though it were mine. But my partner would have dark, dark hair. His touch would feel like possession and his whispers would feel like a caress.
My pulse pounds everywhere, my thighs pressed tight, overwhelmed by the desperate longing to slide my there. Instead, I grip his forearm harder and, as she comes undone, a gust of air pushes between my parted lips.
The aftermath is silence but for the sound of my pounding heart. But it doesn’t take long for reality and discomfort to set in. I force my stiff fingers to loosen from their death grip as I begin to mutter my excuses. “I’ve got to go.”
He catches my hand. “Don’t leave.”
I find myself turning, a denial already on my lips when the unexpected brush of his body blooms inside me like a secret delight. He’s hard.
“Come with me.” He pulls me along in his wake. I’m not reluctant, though maybe I should be, but this whole thing feels like a fever dream. My reactions are completely out of place. I’ve never felt this way before, never been so turned on that my core aches for more.
We enter a dimly lit hallway, the clip of my heels echoing along with the sound of his footsteps. I should be afraid, not excited, I tell myself. I should pull away.
But sometimes you want what’s best, and other times you crave things that are no good.
He spins to face me, his gaze spearing me to the spot. “What are you doing here?”
I frown—I can’t give up on my charade now. Not in a dimly hallway with a man who seems to be suddenly very angry with me. My blood surges as his eyes dip to my mouth as though he’s fighting the urge to kiss me. Then my breath halts as it seems like he will. I step back and he steps forward, like the moment is part of a choreographed dance.
“You look like you’re lost.”
My back meets a cold wall, and my heart begins to hammer in a place it has no business being. He looks he’d devour me given half the chance and my insides feel plump with the thought of it.