Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
“No, baby girl. No.” He shakes his head slowly. “I would have gone alone and left hours early because it’d be bloody boring without your mouthy arse there.”
I smile. “Really?”
He nods. “You said you needed to think. You’ve had two days. Will you put me out my misery now? If I’m going alone, I’m gonna need to update Candy Crush.”
I flick my wrist and slap the side of his head. “Bastard.”
He grins.
“I was actually trying to call you before you stormed in and nailed me against my wall.” My lips twist wryly.
He snorts. “One way to put it. Do I get to be a smug bastard at the weekend then?”
“Why would you be smug?”
“Answer the question.”
“Okay, okay. Yes. I’ll go with you.”
“Good choice.” He tilts his head up and kisses me softly. “And I’ll be smug because I know I’ll be the one taking you home to fuck you, not some knob who doesn’t deserve you.”
Knob. “I love your British words. They’re so adorable.”
“I think ‘taking you home to fuck you’ is pretty universal.”
I smack his head again. “I’m talking about knob. It’s such a great word.”
“And it sounds fucking hilarious with your accent.” He laughs, flipping me onto my back. He leans over me, his body hard against mine.
It’s not all that’s hard.
He kisses my jaw, one of his hands creeping from my back around to my breast. He cups it beneath my bra, his thumb finding my nipple.
“Really?” I breathe, my body responding to him easily.
“I have a date—and with a woman who doesn’t sleep with a guy more than once, doesn’t date, and doesn’t cuddle, no less. I need to celebrate. More specifically, my cock needs to celebrate with your pussy. You down with that?”
I bring my legs up, sinking my fingers into his hair. “I’d hate to be a party pooper.”
I don’t have anything to wear.
So go naked. I wouldn’t complain.
Tyler, this is serious.
You have a shit ton of drawers and stuff. You can find something to wear to a party.
I can. But I can’t find anything to wear to this party.
I told you, babe. Go naked. Or in lingerie. With stockings. And heels.
I roll my eyes.
I’ll be wearing that anyway.
So what’s the problem?
I sigh and shake my head at my phone.
But I need something nice. And I don’t exactly have the kind of money to buy something to fit in at this type of party.
“This type of party?”
Full of people who make more in a month than I do in a year.
Like it matters what you wear. You could turn up in a fucking paper bag and put all those rich gits to shame.
My lips twitch as a gentle warmth rises in my stomach.
Charmer. But it’s not solving my problem.
You’ll work it out. I gotta go. My model’s here.
I drop my phone face down on the floor next to me. I’m not quite sure what I expected from that conversation—but I guess something a little more than what I got.
I wasn’t joking when I said that I have nothing to wear. I know I’ll walk into that freakin’ party and I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t have the bank balance to make sure I don’t. Sure, I have some money, but I also have bills to pay.
As much as I wish I could default a couple of payments, I don’t want my car repossessed.
Oh well. I guess I could always ask Dayton.
“We’re going to dinner.”
I look up. Dayton is standing in my doorway, her hands on her hips and her eyes glued to me. Slouched on the sofa, like usual.
“We are?”
“Yes. We are. And we’re going now.”
I look at my fluffy, pink slippers. “I’m really not dressed for Aaron’s standard of restaurant.”
“So get off your ass and get changed.”
I swing my legs around with a huff. My eyes glance over at her—she’s wearing skinny jeans, but they’re teamed with a loose, sheer blouse, a fitted blazer, and a pair of darling Chanel heels. I would know because I’ve been staring at them lovingly online for weeks.
“And if I don’t?”
She rolls her eyes. “Then you won’t hear about Aaron’s fun, new project.”
“I need to hear about it?”
“You do. It’s important. So move.” She strolls across my apartment, her clicks clacking. She grabs my arms, yanks me up, and shoves me in the direction of my bedroom. “Heels. Nice jacket. Go.”
Yes, Mom.
I do as she said, forgoing my comfortable slippers and sliding on my new Louboutins. I grab a pale-pink blazer from my closet and switch it with my sweater. I leave the tank top on. She isn’t getting me out of that.
“Fine. Let’s go.” I run my fingers through my hair to fluff it and grab my purse.
“Tyler will be there.” She glances at me suggestively.
“Mmph. Two weeks ago, you were warning me off him.”