Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I point toward the dining table . . . the one that can comfortably seat twelve. “Understated, I see . . .”
He smiles at my sarcasm. “It’s not mine. I’m merely using it for the next few days. It’s the presidential suite. It needed to be . . . presidential.”
“I thought mine was the presidential suite,” I mumble; then I turn to see a geometrical abstract painting hung in the living room, done in primary colors with stark black lines. “Jesus.” I turn to him. “Is that an original Mondrian?”
He looks it over and shrugs. “Are we here to discuss art or . . . ?”
“Oh, right. Very to the point. Well then, strip if you’re in such a rush.”
He laughs and walks toward me, only stopping when his dress shoes touch the tips of mine. He doesn’t touch me at all, save for the hand he slowly lifts so he can cup my chin and tilt it up gently, angling our mouths so they’re only a few inches apart.
“I’m sorry. I’m rude.”
My brow furrows. “You aren’t rude.”
“It is a Mondrian.”
My jaw drops, and he leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. “Now, should I undress you here?”
I smile. “Show me the rest of the suite.”
He groans. “Casey.”
I feel almost lightheaded with power knowing he wants this as badly as I do.
“I’m not giving you a tour. There are a few powder rooms, a living room, dining room . . . guest bedroom . . . main bedroom . . . who fucking cares.” His hands slip around the back of my dress until he finds the zipper, which he slowly works down my back while he speaks.
I don’t stop him. I hold perfectly still until the material gapes open.
He steps closer as he gathers the two shoulder straps of my dress and pulls them down. The material gathers at my waist, and then he pushes it until it pools on the floor at my feet.
“Step out.”
I do, listening to the click of my high heels on the marble floor.
Only when he has me completely sans dress does he step back to look at me.
I’m flush with nerves, hyperaware of the rise and fall of my chest, of my quaking stomach. I want to band my arms across my belly, to cover up in some way, but the moment his eyes fall across my skin, I can’t. I want him looking. I feed off of the way his eyes darken and narrow as he takes in my panties and bra. They’re the palest pink, almost sheer. That muscle tenses in his jaw, and I dip my head and bite down on my lower lip to keep from outright gloating.
“This is insanity.”
My gaze rises to meet his in question. “Sleeping together?”
He nearly smirks. “You think we’ll sleep?”
My mouth goes dry as he takes me in, lazily drawing his gaze down my chest, my stomach, my hips, that private spot between my thighs. “I’ve never done this,” I blurt.
His eyes grow wide in fear. “Sex?”
I nearly snort. “Sex, of course. The one-night stand thing . . .” I shake my head. “No.”
“Right. Well . . . I’m not really the type either.”
“Shocking.”
His blue eyes pierce mine.
“Is it?” he presses, wanting my full assessment of his character.
“No,” I amend.
I feel bad for throwing out such a capricious comment. It’s not true. Just because he carries the money and title doesn’t mean Phillip falls in line with the playboy stereotype. He seems too thoughtful. There is Vivienne, though. Do I ask about her now? Confirm that the rumors about their recent split are true? It seems like such a heavy topic to bring up, but I’d rather not accidentally become the other woman simply because I didn’t want to ask a tough question.
“Just to confirm . . . you are single, aren’t you?”
He looks offended. “Of course. Aren’t you?”
My eyes widen. “Yes. I just . . . wanted to be clear.”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” he confirms.
I lift my chin. “Good.”
“And we’re clear on the interview?”
His tone is sharp and unyielding, like he’s speaking in a boardroom.
I roll my eyes. “Oh my god. Yes. Mr. Woodmont, I’m aware you won’t be giving me an interview. Enough. I’m not here to persuade you. I want—”
His lips twist into a gloating smile when my sentence hitches. “You want what, Casey?”
I can’t say it.
I’m not used to having conversations like this. My previous bedroom encounters included a lot of lights-out fumbling. Let’s just say I’ve never stood on board a luxury cruise liner, inside a presidential suite, in nothing but a revealing bra and silk panties. This is uncharted territory, and Phillip can see that plain as day. He knows, of the two of us, he has the upper hand. That should make me nervous, but instead, it turns me on. This imbalance between us, down to our current state of dress . . .