Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 156146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 520(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 520(@300wpm)
However, I did it.
I opened my mouth.
And his tongue slipped inside.
Tasting his warmth, tasting Judge, I arched into him.
His fingers dug into my scalp.
Our tongues tangled.
I liked to dance, all kinds of dance.
But especially slow dances.
And this one was the best.
The best of my life.
Judge broke it and stepped back.
He then whispered, “Happy New Year.”
I breathed.
Heavily.
And this rendered me unable to speak.
It didn’t render me unable to see, and what I saw was what I’d seen in the shoe department at River Rain, in Wild Iris, in Bowie’s living room,
The most beautiful eyes in the most handsome face I’d ever encountered in my life.
“Give the coat to Duncan,” he ordered. “He’ll bring it into the office.”
I blinked.
Repeatedly.
And quickly.
But with not another word, Judge turned and walked away from me, into the house, through it, and as I had a view to it, even if it was obstructed by bodies, I nevertheless saw the front door open and close behind him.
Chapter 6
The Call
Chloe
One week later…
In whatever way you might’ve needed me.
“Chloe? Are you alive in there?”
I came out of my head and into my office, focusing on Mi-Young.
“Where were you?” she asked. “Because I kinda wanna go there, and it also scares me.”
Where was I?
I was back, a week ago, on Bowie’s veranda, going over, yet again, some of the things that Judge had said to me.
Things I had missed at the time.
Like, wearing material that has zero insulation properties.
Of course, what he’d said after that was utterly ungentlemanly.
But the bottom line was, he’d worried about me being out in the cold.
There was also, all I did was be very obvious about the fact I’m interested in you.
Which were, of course, words a girl might obsess on.
Though, I was above that.
(I so was not.)
As well as, I spent the time between then and now concerned for you because that heavy is really fucking heavy.
He was so right.
It was fucking heavy.
And it was so sweet that he’d get that.
Not to mention the things he said that concerned me.
Such as, been here, done this kinda crap too many times.
And, educated guesses that come not only from your behavior, but experience.
I really did not want to know what that meant.
(But the time I spent thinking about it, I totally did.)
All of that said, outside ruminating on my temporary insanity of participating in that amazing kiss, the thing that took the most of my attention was, in whatever way you might’ve needed me.
How would that go, having the man in my life be there in whatever way I might need him?
And then, how would it go, when he eventually did something awful, and he was gone, but I still needed him?
“Okay, now you’re freaking me out,” Mi said, and I again had to force myself to focus on her.
“I just…have a lot on my mind,” I replied. “It’s application time, and that’s always stressful.”
“I hear that,” she muttered, staring down at our “conference table” (which was in quotes because it was small, round, barely seated four people, was tucked into a corner of my equally small office that I had perhaps budgeted a tad too much into making spectacular, so I wasn’t sure what kind of conferences it could host, considering it barely fit me and Mi and only me and Mi ever sat at it—when we had full staff meetings, I took us all out to a nice restaurant).
“We can try adding on a few more,” I suggested. “Say, go from doing a candidate a quarter to one every other month.”
She looked at me, fear in her eyes.
I understood her fear.
It was fear for the amount of work that would be and money it would cost that we had to raise for the program we ran that we were currently discussing.
“Okay, maybe not,” I mumbled.
“We need more publicity for this program,” she said, not for the first time.
My neck instantly started itching.
“Mi—”
“Hear me out,” she requested.
“Is it something I haven’t heard you say before?” I asked.
Her expression grew determined. “Maybe not, but I really want you to listen to me this time.”
I sighed and then rolled a hand, even if, in it, I was holding my Marilyn Monroe inspired Mont Blanc pen with its ivory barrel, rose gold accents and pearl at the base of the clip.
“You are Imogen Swan’s and Tom Pierce’s daughter,” she stated.
“I know—”
She held up one of her pretty, petite hands, which was Mi. She was pretty, exceptionally so, and petite. I looked like an Amazon next to her.
I loved our dichotomy, it so worked when we were out on the prowl (though Mi didn’t prowl anymore, she was now very taken).
I further loved that she was one of the few people I knew who understood and loved herself in a way everyone should aspire to.
It was perhaps unprofessional (though I didn’t care), but the truth of the matter was, I just loved her.