Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129191 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129191 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
When another voice, this one deeper, joins them, a shock of suspicion shoots through me. I strain to hear the lower timbre of the newcomer but can’t make out the words.
But Tiffany’s voice is perfectly understandable. “You’re worse than a horndog on Viagra!”
I’m halfway to the door, and able to hear more clearly, when Billy answers, “You know you like it. Feel how hard it is.”
It’s Billy, my own flesh and blood, and I should be able to get back on the rails, but I rip the door open, fury rushing through my bloodstream like lava. So I look even more like a fucking crazy idiot when I find Billy grinning widely as he flexes his bicep and Tiffany delicately squeezing the muscle.
“What is going on here?” I demand sharply. Four sets of wide eyes swivel to me as one.
“Mr. Stryker,” Vanessa starts, but her words falter and she falls silent.
Ricky coughs indelicately, not quite covering it up as he grunts, “Told you so.”
I don’t know who or what he told. All I can see is Tiffany’s fingers touching Billy’s tattooed skin. And I don’t like it one fucking bit.
I seem to have reverted to my Neanderthal stage, and dimly, I see the look on Tiffany’s face. She somehow anticipated this.
“Hey, I was just telling Tiff about my new routine at the gym. Really seeing the gains,” Billy explains, flexing again as he stares admiringly at his own arm, but I don’t acknowledge that he’s even spoken. “We really should chat about your routine and—”
“Miss Young, can I see you in my office, please?” It’s a question, polite and professional, but gritted through clenched teeth that belie any semblance of proper civility.
No, my words might be measured, but I am balancing on a sharp edge of restraint, leaning into an unfettered release of whatever this fire inside me consists of. I want to explode, I want to rage. I want to . . . I don’t know.
I expect her to cower the way most people in this building do when I look at them crossly. Hell, I’ve had people almost flee the room in terror when I’ve just had bad gas.
But not her.
Not Tiffany Young. She’s adamantium, she’s steel, she’s stronger than I gave her credit for.
In fact, she doesn’t flinch in the slightest.
If anything, her little sweet smile grows a fraction of an inch, almost amused by my interruption and outburst.
“Of course, sir.”
Her left brow raises slightly, letting me see that dark glint that has suddenly been driving me wild late at night when my conscious control is relaxed and she sneaks in to haunt my dreams.
She struts toward me as if she hasn’t a care in the world, or more importantly, as if she isn’t walking into the lion’s den. And right as she gets in front of me, she pauses to straighten my already precisely tied tie. Damn it all, I can see the faintest outline of her lacy bra pressing against her blouse as she does it, and my brain starts running away into flights of fancy again.
Then, with a pat of approval, she passes into my office, leaving behind a light floral scent to tickle my nostrils. I feel like a schoolboy with an overly horned up mind as I rush to inhale again for another hit, but she’s gone past too quickly. No matter, though. I’ll have another opportunity before I let her out of my office.
I give Ricky and Billy a cold-eyed glare, but they both look back at me stone-faced. They won’t say a word around the office. My look softens slightly when I glance to Vanessa, and I know she’s the same way. As reassured as I can be, I close the door.
Tiffany is standing in front of my desk, her hands clasped behind her back. I take the opportunity to look her up and down, and she’s even sexier than what my fantasy created.
She’s wearing a navy blue skirt that hugs her hips and skims down her thighs to just above her knees. Below that, her calves are shapely and bare, answering one question, and stretch down to a sexy pair of leopard heels. Her top is white, a basic, almost falsely innocent color that says she’s a good girl . . . except I swear there was one more button done when she walked past me a moment ago. With the added openness, I’m drawn to the hint of fullness I can almost see. But I force my eyes up past the edge of collarbone to her intelligent eyes and then to the dark curls framing her face and cascading down her back.
Curls that would look amazing spread out on my desk, that navy skirt hiked up around her waist.
Yeah, right.
Perhaps she’d be better off with Billy. He’s certainly closer to her age, and he’s a good man. I should know. I helped raise him. He’ll make her laugh, even if it’s usually low brow humor. He’ll be good to her.