Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“That could be arranged,” I murmur, watching as a single bead of sweat slips down her elegant neck beneath her ponytail. The carnal part of me wants to lick it away before lifting her skirt and taking her against the brick wall.
But that would be insane.
And there are cameras up here, I remind the feral part of myself that insists it doesn’t care about sanity. All it cares about is getting back inside this woman as soon as possible.
She turns, stepping so close that I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, smell the lingering sweetness of passionfruit and cherry on her breath.
“Thank you for today,” she whispers. “I enjoyed seeing your secret places.”
“They’re your secret places now, too,” I say, the roughness in my voice giving my thoughts away.
Her gaze darkens in recognition. “What are you thinking about, Mr. Mendelssohn? Decided you might want to read a sexy book together, after all?”
“Something like that,” I say, letting my hunger take control. I tip my nearly empty cup, letting a drop of the melted ice fall onto her collarbone.
She sucks in a breath.
“Though I confess I prefer doing to reading,” I murmur, bending to lick the sweetness away.
Her head falls back with a moan as my tongue laves across her warm skin. She arches closer, her breasts pressing against my chest as her arms twine around my neck. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when I pull back to gaze down at her flushed face.
“I have to,” I say. “We still have one more stop on the approved locations tour.”
She swallows, her pulse fluttering in her throat. “Where’s that?”
“My bedroom.”
ten
ELAINA
The second his bedroom door clicks shut behind us, Hunter’s mouth is on mine. I melt into him with a groan, my head spinning from the swift transition from the sweltering heat outside to the air-conditioned chill in the apartment.
Or maybe it’s just his kiss that has me feeling like I’m on a ride at the carnival.
A ride I never want to get off…
Damn, he tastes good, like passionfruit and summer heat and forbidden things I shouldn’t crave, but I do.
And it seems my fake fiancé has similar feelings.
“Been craving this smart mouth all day,” he murmurs, his fingers circling my waist like they were made to fit there, making me feel small, delicate.
I’m a petite person. I’ve always been much smaller than the men in my bed, but Hunter is next-level enormous, not just tall, but broad, with powerful hands that could probably snap me in half without breaking a sweat if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want to, I can tell. His touch is hungry, demanding, but also surprisingly careful, as if he’s wary of hurting me on accident.
The way he spans my ribs, fingertips curling into my back, firm but gentle at the same time, makes me feel strangely…cherished.
It’s ridiculous, of course. This isn’t about cherishing. This is about fucking with a purpose under contract.
It’s an arrangement, a situation, not a relationship.
Still, as he presses me against the door, caging me between his heat and the hard wood, something inside me flutters dangerously. It’s a hopeful something, a tiny corner of my heart that insists a man who touches a woman like this isn’t as cold or callous as he pretends to be.
“How’s your pussy now?” he asks, his breath hot against my neck. “I need a percentage update.”
Exhaling a soft laugh as I realize he’s calling back to my teasing words on the street earlier, I murmur, “At least fifty percent wetter. But it could be sixty soon, if you stop messing around and get my clothes off, already.”
“Such a bossy little brat.” His thumb finds my lower lip, teasing it, his voice rough in a way that sends heat licking through my veins.
“Someone really should teach me a lesson,” I breathe, arousal rocketing through me as he reaches down, gripping the bottom of my dress and jerking it up around my hips, baring my white satin panties.
“If you tear my dress, I’m going to be irritable,” I warn, though I honestly couldn’t care less about the dress right now.
I love vintage clothing. I treasure and respect it. But with Hunter’s fingers dipping down to rub my clit through the damp satin, I find it hard to muster up passion for anything but him.
“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that,” he says, his signature bone-dry sarcasm in full effect.
“You really wouldn’t.” I sigh, my head falling back as his lips skim across my jaw, down my throat, until he finds the place where my pulse rushes. “I’m a nightmare when I’m irritated. Just…” I trail off, shuddering as his pressure between my legs increases, until the tingling in my clit becomes a deeper, more insistent ache.
“You’re awful, I know,” he finishes for me, kissing his way up to my ear, proving anything can be an erogenous zone in the right hands, the right mouth. I cling to him, blood heating to a sizzle as he drags his teeth over my earlobe before whispering, “But you’re also funny. I would never have admitted it at the time, but when you told me to fuck myself in the face with a hot poker, I almost lost it.”