Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“You don’t have to talk.” He undoes the bottom button of my blouse. “And I don’t have to do this.” He slips his hand under my shirt and drags his fingertips up my skin.
The soft brush of his touch ignites a fire inside me. It’s been less than twelve hours since we drove to the top of that hill, but it feels like it’s been a million years.
I need him to touch me here. Everywhere.
I need it in a way I’ve never needed anything.
He teases me with soft brushes of his hands. Higher and higher and higher and—
There.
His index finger brushes my nipple. Then the middle finger. The ring finger.
He moves to soft, slow circles.
I try to find some way to spur him on. “River—”
“Yeah?” He barely gets the words out. He wants this, too. Wants me, too.
“Are you really stooping to blackmail?”
“Blackmail?” He draws a circle around my nipple. “No. This is a negotiation.”
“You’re an artist.”
“And?”
“Why do you only speak in deals?”
He laughs. “People think artists are sensitive. Softhearted.” He looks at me, the picture of calm negotiation, as he draws circles around my tender skin, again and again.
My eyes flutter closed.
My fingers curl into his stomach.
“But the arts are the most cutthroat place in the world,” he says. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
“Uh-huh.”
He draws another circle around me. “Keep talking.”
“We’re talking?”
He presses his lips to my neck. “Why are you shy about your connections?”
“I’m not. The meeting was bullshit. A photo op so some tech guy could tell the world he supported women. He didn’t do anything to help us. He didn’t even rent the ballroom for the rest of the afternoon.”
“He didn’t respect you?”
“No more talking.”
“Keep talking.” He toys with me again.
My body hums with desire. I don’t want to talk, but I don’t want him to stop, either. As long as he doesn’t stop, I can talk about anything. But what the hell are we talking about anyway?
Some meeting.
The fake women’s summit. “Yes, he didn’t respect me.” I let my forehead fall onto his chest. “He didn’t respect any of us. I see it all the time. These men who think it’s cute two women in their twenties made a company. As if we’re their daughters or granddaughters, and we’re asking them to buy supplies for our lemonade stand.”
“Bastards.”
“Bastards who rule the world,” I say.
“Older men?”
“Younger ones, too. They’re a little less obvious about talking down to us, but they still put us in a category. Women inventors. Women’s projects. Women’s problems. As if dating is something only women do. As if men don’t need clothes or clean houses or childcare.”
“You hate them?”
“Sometimes.” I find enough sense to blink my eyes open. Look up at him.
His eyes are filled with desire, too.
And he’s way too sexy like this, all power and control and need and dark eyes and dark hair and nimble, artist’s fingers.
“You’re sexy when you’re angry,” he purrs.
“You’re a freak.” And that is one of the hottest things anyone has ever said to me. He leans down and presses his lips to mine. A hard, fast kiss. Then another, just as hard, but slower.
His hands go to my hips, and he pulls my pelvis against his. I feel his hardness against me, and it feels so good.
Why does that feel so fucking good?
“Keep talking.” He places a kiss on my neck.
“Do I need to hit a certain word count?”
He presses his lips to my neck a little slower, a little softer.
My body hums.
Another kiss. “You could admit it.”
“Admit what?” Seriously, why are we talking?
He holds steady, speaks with confidence and clarity. “You downplay your accomplishments.”
“Having a vagina isn’t an accomplishment.”
In response, he rocks his pelvis against mine again.
I’m not sure if that means hell yeah, it is or I like yours or keep talking or I stop.
But then I don’t care.
As long as he keeps doing that.
Wait.
I don’t have to play by his rules. I don’t have to play by anyone’s rules but my own.
I press my palm into his stomach. “The app is amazing, and I designed it. The base of it, I built alone. My ideas. My code. My insights. From there, other people helped. We have a small team, but they’re amazing. I’m not shy about saying I started this. I know I did. I know I kicked ass with it.”
“You did.”
“You have no idea if I did or not. Don’t pretend.”
“No, I do,” he says. “I signed up last night.”
“You did?” River opened up the app. He signed up. That’s not his thing. That’s an odd choice. Is it for me, or him, or some other reason?
“After you fell asleep on me.”
A million things flit through my head at once.
“Do you need to get your phone out and check?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
No.
“I used a fake name.”
“I can check your IP address. My IP address. You used my Internet.” It’s easy to back solve these things. Even if people know how to hide what they’re doing, it’s pretty easy to figure it out when you have access to all the available data.