Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
"Not used to sex scenes?" his voice asked, making my attention snap to his face.
Which, well, was a mistake. "What?" I asked, shaking my head a little.
"Hundred bucks says your panties are wet right now," he said, his voice still doing that soft, not-cruel thing that was in some way or another problematic for me. One, because without the edge to it, his voice was really sexy. Two, because I absolutely, positively did not want to think anything about dickhead Byron St. James was sexy.
"I thought I made it clear that I don't gamble," I said, lifting my chin a little.
"You're not the one gambling; I am," he clarified over the very distinct sound of a slap from the TV.
I swallowed hard, looking for some way to evade. Because I was pretty sure he would know if I outright lied. Don't ask me how I knew that, but I did. "Maybe you should keep your money. You know... so you can further ruin sick people's lives."
"You blame me for your father's gambling?"
"I blame you for playing both sides against the middle."
"If he didn't take from me, don't you think he'd have taken from someone else?"
"Of course he would have taken from someone else. But no one else would let him take so much. No one else would take..." I started then snapped my mouth shut at what I was almost going to say. I got carried away. Fact of the matter was, I had never discussed my father's gambling with anyone save for the one time I sought out a counselor to help me understand his addiction. I never got close enough with someone to peel back that layer and expose the wound. Why I had been able to do that with the man who was responsible, at least in part, for my father's issues was completely beyond me.
"No one else would take you as payment," he finished for me, face passive.
"Exactly."
"And no one else would force you to dress like a whore and listen to him fuck another woman, and watch him jerk off and watch a sex scene with him."
"Right," I said, looking back at the TV which, despite still on a sex scene, seemed like a safer place to have my eyes than on his face.
Of course that was until his hand moved out and snagged my chin, using it to force my face back to his. "You really don't know much about the men in this town," he said, shaking his head a little.
I tried to jerk my head away, but his fingers just closed tighter on my chin. "You're not supposed to touch me," I reminded him. "You gave your word."
"I gave my word that I wouldn't hurt you. Am I hurting you?" he asked, his fingers moving out to stroke across my cheek then slightly down my neck. The contact made a small, involuntary shiver course through my system and I prayed it was the kind that felt physical, but wasn't visible. Of course that was shot to shit the second his eyes darkened a little. And I knew that look well enough to place it when I saw it: desire.
Desire?
He wanted me?
Of all people?
I mean, I knew I shouldn't have been flattered. It was asinine, completely and utterly absurd. He was the biggest jackass I had ever met. But that being said, and as much as it pained me to admit it, he was stunning. And his taste in women generally ran to the ultra-perfect female equivalent of his good looks. Case and point, Lyla. She was so freaking pretty that she made me feel like a red-headed step child who was born with a hideous, fist-sized mole on her cheek. So, yeah. Okay. I was a little flattered. Though really, it meant nothing if a guy was willing to fuck you. Hell, if the mood struck, I was pretty sure they could completely remove your face and body and pretend they were fucking Adriana Lima instead.
That was likely what was happening.
We'd just watched a sexy movie. I was close by. I had a vagina. He had a dick. It was that simple.
"Answer me," he commanded, bringing me out of my strange, swirling internal monologue and back to his den in his huge house on his expensive couch with his deep eyes on me, seeming to reach down into my soul and seeing all the parts of me I kept locked away.
"What?" I asked, shaking my head a little, not able to remember the question.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No."
"Then shut the fuck up about it," he demanded, making my eyes widen and my lips part. But before I could even voice an objection, I found my lips crushed by his. His hand moved to my jaw, holding firmly, as his other arm snaked around my back, crushing my chest to his. A jolt moved through my body at the sudden change, the tightness in my chest, the hands on me, the hard male body against me, the pressure on my mouth.