Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
“Get used to my money, Windows.”
I confess to being a little drugged by his dominance. His pushing me up against the car and molding his body against mine has me breathless. So I blink up in confusion. “What?”
“You have a hang-up with money. A chip on your shoulder.”
“I have a chip?” I sputter.
His grin makes him look boyish. The way his hands roam inside the coat he bought me makes me squirm, and I rub my needy clit against his thigh wedged between my legs. “You definitely have issues with it.” He lowers his head and nibbles at my neck. “I want to spoil you with my money. Will you let me?”
Oh my gawd. It’s not dirty talk. I mean, I’m sure he doesn’t mean it to be, but everything in me electrifies at his words. My nipples turn as hard as diamonds, my core clenches. As much as he’s right–I do have hang-ups with his money–this request, delivered in Brick’s demanding, bossy way, nearly makes me come.
He wants to spoil me with his money.
I have parameters and definitions about money. I want to earn it. Legitimately. Through my hard work and brains. I don’t want it given to me. I resent people–like the Blackthroats–who had it handed to them without hard work or earning it.
I didn’t like finding out Eleanor Harrington paid for my secondary education or that I may have gotten financial assistance from Princeton through her connections.
But something about Brick’s request blows all my armor around money off. Strips me bare. Spreads my legs and demands I receive.
“M-maybe.” I’m trembling again, only this time it’s not from fear.
“Are you cold, sweet girl?” In a flash, I find myself up in Brick’s arms. I guess now that he doesn’t have to hide his superior strength, he can show off a little. I loop my arms around his neck, letting out a breathy laugh.
He carries me to an elevator, which seems to have a thumbprint recognition because after he presses his thumb, a crisp, computerized voice says, “Welcome, Mr. Blackthroat,” and the doors swish open.
“Oh my God!” I laugh.
He must hear some judgment in my astonishment because he says, “You’re hard to impress, you know that, Madison?”
I think that guts me more than anything. Has Blackthroat been trying to impress me and thought he’d failed?
Far from it.
So very far.
“I just hide it well. I’m not immune to your many charms, Big Bad. I just pretend I am.”
“I’m not sure I’ve been called charming before.” Another thumbprint recognition zips us up in the elevator, and the doors open to a short hallway leading to a single door. The penthouse is a beautiful space–brick walls and hardwood floors. Wall-to-wall windows overlook Central Park. The ceilings are lofted with exposed fixtures and pipes. It somehow manages to be both warm and industrial at once. Masculine but refined. There are Persian rugs on the floors, and the furniture is a mix of antique and modern.
“I think you’re purposely anti-charming,” I accuse as he strides through the living room and takes me straight to the bedroom–which also features floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park and a giant king bed in the middle of the room.
“Definitely.”
“Can dinner be a part of tonight’s activities?” I ask when I realize his plan. It’s past eight, and I’m starving.
He stops, closing his eyes as if he’s angry with himself for forgetting. Either that or he’s mustering control. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”
“Trophy,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “I’ll order some food to be brought up. I really need to get you naked right now.” He tosses me effortlessly into the middle of the bed, and I shimmy out of my coat and kick my heels onto his rug. “But I do want to take you out soon. For dinner. For lunch. To Paris. Rome. Milan. May I court you, properly, Madison Evans?”
I try to breathe through the giddiness. This can’t all be true. He’s way too Prince Charming. And I’m way too Cinderella.
He tilts his head when I don’t answer.
“Yes, sir?” I offer with a smile.
“Oh, are we doing the sir thing?” He never put a tie back on after shifting, but he produces one from his pocket now.
I suddenly understand why he keeps changes of clothes at the office. In case he spontaneously shreds his suit changing into wolf form.
“Okay, Windows. I’ll give you what you need from your Big Bad Boss.” He snaps the tie between two hands like he’s showing me a belt, then rolls me to my belly and pins my hands behind my back.
I laugh and kick my feet, creaming my panties when he winds the tie around my wrists and secures them.
“That should hold you while I order food and then take my time turning this ass pink.” He slides both hands up the backs of my thighs, dragging the hem of my dress with them.