Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Incendiary images flash before my eyes as we leave the club and all its discretion behind. I want another invitation to The West House with Rafe. I want an invitation to . . . everywhere with him.
I want to try all the things—in private and sometimes in public.
Rafe was right when he stared me in the eyes and told me he knew what turned me on.
At the elevator, Rafe presses the call button, then glances my way. “I’m delighted to learn you enjoyed the Rafe job,” he says drily, so very understated.
But there’s a hint of a smile on his face, and I want to keep it there. “I hope I’ve got my sea legs back by the time I get on the plane for New York tomorrow. It’s kind of a miracle that I can walk right now.”
“Well, praise the Lord, then,” he says.
I pat his chest. “You’re also some kind of sex MacGyver. Best life hack ever with that lip balm.”
“Keeps lips soft and has other uses.”
“That it does.”
Then, he turns down the smile and turns up the intensity in his brown eyes. “I wanted to make it good for you,” he says. “I wanted to blow your mind.”
There’s an unspoken question there, giving me a glimpse of the man behind the walls he’s erected. He truly wants me to be blown away. “Mission accomplished,” I say. I could blather on about how utterly fucking amazing it was, but I leave it at that, trying to keep a tiny bit of cool.
The elevator arrives, and we step inside. Before the doors even shut, he grabs me, pushes me in the corner, and silences any more conversation with a hot, deep kiss that ends far too soon when we reach the first floor.
The kiss is full of his distinct kind of possession.
That’s what made the hand job earth-shattering. I could feel his ownership.
On the street, I glance up at the sleek, austere building that houses a decadent private club I never knew existed. I take a moment to admire it. To get my bearings too.
I feel a little . . . unlocked. I know why I’m so intensely drawn to certain things—dancing at Edge like I did the night I met Rafe, posting a thirst trap on my social, then sending that very sexy video.
Something inside me was urging me on, telling me to go, see, explore.
But it’s so revealing, so exposing, and I’m not sure I want to linger in this hyper self-aware state around Rafe—a man who’s older, wiser, so much more experienced.
So, I fall back on what I always do when I feel the ground getting shaky under me: swagger and charm.
“Well,” I say brightly, “I’m going to give The West House five stars in my online review.”
Rafe laughs. “Oh, good. I know they were angling for fresh reviews,” he says.
I put a hand on his shoulder as we head to where his limo idles at the end of the block. “Don’t worry, babes. I know it’s a secret thing. When you joined, did they tap on your door at midnight and drag you off, blindfolded, for an initiation ritual?”
“Yes. There was a ritual,” Rafe says as we near his limo. “It involved a signature on a big check.”
The mention of money is another reminder that Rafe comes from another world. I do just fine as a major leaguer, but it’s early in my career. I’m not rolling in dough, and a big chunk of what I make goes to college tuition for my brother and sister, and to help my mom out here and there. She did so much for us growing up after my dad died far too soon. I work hard and don’t take for granted the chance that I have to play ball in the big leagues.
But Rafe is in another class. Like, private-yacht class—some opulent one hundred twenty-foot thing with a stateroom, a king-size bed, and a private chef. I can picture him on one so perfectly, all sun-kissed and windswept on the deck, staring grandly at the ocean.
I’d ask if he actually has a yacht, but it would sound like I was angling for him to take me on it. He wouldn’t like that. It would be almost certainly against one of his rules.
I don’t need a ride on his yacht anyway. I just want to know the guy and learn more about who he is.
And whoa . . .
I need to shut that shit down, stat.
When Barrett comes around and opens the limo door, I slap on a smile, draw a deep breath of night air, then gesture vaguely in the direction of my neighborhood. “It’s a nice night. I think I’ll walk home. Goodnight, babes,” I say.
Then I head in the other direction.
22
CAUGHT STEALING
Gunnar
As I walk up the block, night cloaking me in a chill, I wish I felt as ballsy leaving the limo as I do when stealing second base.