Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Damn you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Damn you for what you do to me.”
Back at you.
My hands move over his broad back, my hips meeting his every thrust.
He kisses me, and I forget everything. Our messy past, his parents, the stupid contract, the fighting. There’s only him, only us.
Matt hooks an arm behind my knee, changing the angle just slightly so that every thrust hits me just right.
I cling to his shoulders, my nails digging in in warning.
“Come,” he growls against my throat. “Come again.”
I do, and he comes with me, our cries unapologetically echoing throughout the quiet living room.
We catch our breath together, neither moving or saying a word. Thank God. I’m not sure there’s anything to say.
I’m both dismayed and relieved when the moment’s realized by Juno, who comes back into the living room and shoves her rabbit squeaky toy against Matt’s hip.
Matt chuckles and gently pushes the dog’s face away, which only makes Juno more insistent.
“All right, all right, you win,” Matt says, pulling away and standing up. “I knew there was a reason we usually do this at my place.”
Actually, the reason we usually “do this” at his place is because it feels safer. Having him in my home is unnerving enough. Having him naked in my home is a whole other thing entirely.
We both gather up our clothes, not meeting each other’s eyes as we get dressed.
“Okay,” Matt mutters to the dog as he zips his pants. “Now I can play with your damn toy.” He winces as he pulls the bunny from Juno’s snout.
“Yeah, they get a little . . . slobbery,” I say as he tosses the rabbit across the living room, to Juno’s delight.
He smiles and wipes his palm against his pant leg, but Juno returns with the toy for another round. Matt repeats the process, playing fetch with my dog’s disgusting toy as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He picks up the abandoned tea and winces as he takes a sip. “I hate tea.”
“But you stayed for a cup.”
He smiles. “I did, didn’t I.”
I swallow, wanting to know what it means but too scared to ask. “You want something else to drink?” I say instead.
Matt grins. “You asking me to stay?”
My heart lurches at the question, at what it means. I don’t do this sort of thing. I don’t ask men to stay for tea and sex and lingering.
And yet here I am, wanting desperately for him to stick around, even as I’m terrified he’ll say no.
“I’m asking if you want a drink,” I dodge.
He grins cockily. “No, you’re asking if I want to stay.”
I look away.
“Sabrina.”
“What?” I snap.
He waits until I relent and meet his eyes. Then he smiles, softer this time. “I’d like to. Stay, I mean.”
I shrug as though it’s no big deal and doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.
But it matters. A lot.
And I’m pretty sure he knows it.
23
MATT
Monday Afternoon, October 2
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
I’m sitting across the table from a billionaire who’s contemplating giving me free rein to his money. And instead of visualizing the moment of victory when I get Jarod Lanham’s business, I’m visualizing him. And Sabrina.
As a couple.
The image is bitter as hell, and yet I can’t get it out of my head. Because not only is Lanham richer than hell, he’s also . . . decent.
And decent-looking. I’ve never really given two shits about whether women consider another man attractive. Sure, I’m vaguely aware that Ian and Kennedy are good-looking guys. And that Wolfe’s chief technology officer, Dan, looks like a mushroom. But generally speaking, I’m secure enough in my own appeal to the opposite sex not to worry about the competition.
And yet, as I sit here, waiting for Lanham to finish being schmoozed by some corporate goon who ambled over to interrupt our lunch, a guy whose name I’ve already forgotten, I find my attention’s not on my sell. It’s not on the overpriced Kobe burger I’ve barely touched. Instead, I’m looking at Lanham, trying to figure out if he’s Sabrina’s type.
Which is bullshit. Sabrina doesn’t have a type. Does she?
It bothers me that I don’t know.
What I do know is the way Lanham was looking at Sabrina last week at lunch, and later at the bar. He’d been a man who saw something he wanted—her.
And for her part, Sabrina had seemed . . . intrigued.
I take a sip of my drink, studying him from a woman’s point of view. From Sabrina’s.
Damn it. No way around it, the man’s tall, dark, handsome, and absurdly rich.
No, not rich. I’m rich. Jarod Lanham is overwhelmingly, couldn’t-spend-all-his-money-if-he-wanted-to wealthy.
Not that Sabrina cares about that. I don’t know the details of her financial situation, but from what I can tell, she’s plenty comfortable. Her apartment, while small, is in a luxury building, and I’ve never seen her hesitate buying anything she wants, whether it be a new handbag or an expensive glass of wine.