Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“I’m good at reading people,” I tease, throwing his earlier words back at him with a playful smile.
His grin widens, slow and dangerous, and I can tell he’s enjoying this.
“Oh, are you?”
“Mm-hmm,” I reply, leaning back in my chair with a cocky air, my wine glass dangling loosely between my fingers. “It’s a gift. Comes in handy.”
“What do you read when you look at me?”
I take a moment, letting the question settle, my eyes drifting over him as if I’m truly analyzing him.
Then.
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching.
“I see a man who likes to be in control, but not because he’s controlling.” It’s because he has had to take care of his sister, provide for her, and be a grown-up sooner than anyone should have to.
His smirk fades entirely, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything; when his jaw tenses, I’m worried I may have hit a nerve.
“You’re good at being the adult,” I choose my words carefully. “Stepping in when no one else would. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel the weight of responsibility.”
For a moment, the playful banter is gone, replaced by a silence that feels heavier, more intimate. He leans back in his chair, his drink forgotten on the table, and just…
Looks at me.
“That’s quite the read,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
“Did I get it wrong?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“No,” he says softly, resting his knife on the edge of his plate. “You didn’t get it wrong.”
I eat a few more bites, letting the silence stretch and marinate between us, comfortable and unspoken.
“Also,” I murmur, glancing up at him under my long lashes. “You hate spreadsheets.”
That earns me a full laugh, rich and genuine, and I shiver, enjoying the sound of it. Me—I made him laugh like that. A laugh so loud several patrons in the restaurant turned to stare at us.
“I don’t hate spreadsheets. I just think there are more exciting things to look at.”
“Like what?”
“You.”
I totally knew he was going to say that.
He walked right into it.
Panties = 80% wet.
He sets his glass down, removing the napkin from his lap. Gio leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as if he were ready to leave. “I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” I echo, my eyebrows lifting.
I don’t love surprises.
He nods, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips. “But there’s a catch.”
“Of course there is.” I lean back in my chair. “Hmm, what’s the catch?”
“You’ll have to give up dessert,” he says, his tone light, but his eyes never leave mine.
I narrow my gaze at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious. “Give up dessert? Do you know how hard it was not to order the molten lava cake?”
“I promise,” he says, leaning closer, his voice dipping just enough to make my stomach flip. “This is better than cake.”
Better than cake.
Is it dick? I want to ask, but don’t have the nerve. Actually, I wonder what he would say if those were the words that came out of my mouth.
“Do I get a hint?”
“Nope. You just have to trust me.”
“Not even a little one?” I press, my curiosity already eating away at me.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Patience is a virtue, Austin.”
“Yes, and I have none.”
13
gio
Spreadsheets.
Of all the weird shit you can say on a date, she leads with that.
Singing. Running.
Blow jobs.
All better options!
I glance over at her as the car, driven by the hired driver I arranged for tonight, glides smoothly down the nearly empty street, her clutch balanced on her lap, legs crossed at the ankle, the hem of her dress barely brushing her thighs.
The purr of the engine is the only sound, my focus is entirely on her—on the way the streetlights outside catch the soft curves of her profile and the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
I slide my hand onto her thigh—absentmindedly, as if it were the natural thing to do—not too high, not too low—just to feel the warmth of her skin through the sheer fabric of that sexy dress.
The fabric is something sheer and shimmery, clinging to her body like it was poured on; her hips. Waist.
Tits.
They’re impossible to ignore, framed by a neckline that’s low enough to turn me on— but high enough to keep it classy.
Jesus, I can barely keep my eyes off them.
I’ve already weighed and measured them in my mind, determined they’re perfectly full, the kind of size that would fill my palms just right.
They rise and fall with each breath she takes, and I catch myself staring for a split second too long before forcing my eyes back to hers.
Not that it matters.
Austin already caught me looking at least three times tonight, the ghost of a knowing smile playing at her lips every time she catches me peeking.