Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I hate this man. I despise everything he represents. His unchecked power, his obscene privilege. He’s big and gorgeous, and I feel an erotic thrill whenever he comes close, but that’s only a physical response. That’s only my body making a very stupid decision.
My heart wants to stab Erick Costa in the neck until he dies.
“Please. I don’t have anything to do with my father.” Pathetic. I’m so pathetic. Begging won’t do anything, not with a guy like this. But maybe if I play quiet, act submissive, make him think I’m weak—he’ll turn his back and get complacent.
That’s when I make my move and get out of here.
“You have a talent I want. You have something—” He reaches out as if to touch me and I flinch back, both afraid and strangely excited by the prospect of his fingers on my skin. He stops and lowers his hand.
“I’m bad at sex,” I blurt out before I can think better of it. His eyebrows raise. Well, crap, I might as well commit. “I’m boring. I’ve never had an orgasm before. I don’t know anything. I can’t give head or whatever. You won’t make any money trying to sell me like that, nobody’s going to want me.”
Amusement crinkles his face. “Is that what you think?”
“What else could you want from me? I’m worthless otherwise. My dad never taught me anything real and all I have is some stupid art degree. If you think I’m going to pay off millions of dollars with sex—”
He laughs. He actually laughs. If I weren’t terrified for my life and convinced I’m about to be forced into sexual slavery, I’d be really insulted right now.
But Erick shakes his head. “No, my little devil girl, that’s not what I want at all, although I think you’re underselling yourself. You’d make an extremely attractive fuck doll.”
My mouth falls open. Fuck doll? This man’s mouth sends a tingling shiver down between my legs. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not going to whore you out, Hellie. Although now that you say it, I wouldn’t mind tasting you for myself.”
I let out a whimper. “No. Please.”
“Don’t worry.” He leans closer. “I prefer my women willing. Very willing, and begging.”
I blink rapidly, head going blank from his sudden pure sexual heat. This man’s masculine energy is sex personified, and the way he’s licking his lips while staring at my mouth makes me want to either throw myself out a window or directly into his lap.
“What do you want then?” I manage to ask, surprised that I’m still able to form words. I need to get it together. I hate this man and I hate his world. Just because he’s hot doesn’t mean I can let it get to my head.
“You are going to paint for me.” He stands up. I wish he’d stay on the bed, close to me, but this is probably better. I can think clearer once he’s a few feet away.
“Paint?” The word doesn’t make sense. “How? Paint?”
“I told you, you have a talent that I want.” He turns away. “Can you walk?”
“I, uh, think so?”
What the hell is going on right now? The fact that Erick’s talking about my painting is too absurd to process.
“Come with me.” He walks to the door and waits for me to follow.
I get out of bed again. This time, I’m much steadier on my feet. I manage to stagger after him, trailing into a hallway. He turns right and walks to the end of the corridor, and I’m frantically trying to memorize the layout of this place—doors, steps, all that stuff, but it’s a blur.
He opens the last door on the left and gestures for me to go ahead.
I give him a look. “Is this some kind of trap?” I ask.
“No trap. No joke. Go ahead and look. I made this for you.”
I open my mouth to tell him off—
But instead, I peer into the room.
Chapter 4
Hellie
The space is large, bigger than the room we just left. In the center are several driftwood tables with designer chairs around them. Stacked against the walls are dozens of blank canvases of all different shapes and sizes. On shelves are paintbrushes, all of them brand new, and rows and rows of paints. There’s an easel, another desk with paper, charcoal, pens and pencils, big sketch pads, and past that are more cabinets and storage vessels filled with more materials.
“It’s an art studio,” I say, barely believing the words.
A brand-new art studio.
Hardwood floors, beautiful, sleek design, and lots of windows overlooking—something, I can’t tell, it’s too dark outside.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I step inside and start to look around. Everything is expensive, top of the line, no expense spared. It’s the sort of stuff I’ve always dreamed about but could never afford. Colors, so many colors, and lovely soft brushes of different cuts, types, sizes, thicknesses, and angles. There’s a utility sink in the back corner and what looks like a small en-suite bathroom. Books line another shelf—they’re references, beautiful art references, all packed with the most famous paintings in the world, thousands of them.