Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“You say that like it’s not a surprise.”
“I knew it would be busy.”
“Too busy, you hoped?” A fifty slipped to the hostess had not only remedied that problem but also provided us with a table out of the way.
“If I wanted to table block you, I would’ve come along with you. Nothing says premium allocation like hobo chic, and this thing is one wear away from a wardrobe malfunction,” she adds, plucking at the worn cotton.
As she redirects her glower, I’m allowed a moment to look at her. She does look different. Yesterday, she shone like a newly polished pearl, and today, in place of the bride is a woman who looks barely old enough to be married. Her face is makeup-free, and her hair is a little wild. Different, yes, but just as lovely.
“A man can hope.” I shoot her an unrepentant grin that’s not likely to help my cause. I’m saved from further blunders as the waitress sidles up to the table with our drink order. “One Macallan,” she singsongs, placing the lowball glass in front of me. “And a glass of Ruinart for the lady.”
“Ordering for me?” Eve snipes from across the table.
“You didn’t seem to mind me taking charge last night.” I lounge in my seat and slide my hand along the velvety back as both women’s cheeks flush with color. The waitress, though attractive, does nothing for me, yet the scowl Eve is wearing makes me want to lean across the table and lick it from her face. I find her opposition a level of pleasure all its own.
“Well, enjoy!” The waitress spins on her heel.
“You embarrassed the poor girl.”
“You’re not embarrassed.”
“No.” Both her scowl and her color deepen. “I give as good as I get.”
“Yes,” I agree, tempering my smile. “I like that about you.”
“What do you want, Oliver?”
My answer is in the way my gaze sweeps over her, lingering in some of the spaces my lips had savored last night. The hollow beneath her ear. The sensual curve between her shoulder and her neck. Those lips in a mouth so full of denials yet so perfect wrapped around my cock. Sadly, there are more pressing matters, but you can’t blame a man for getting sidetracked.
“You mentioned your belongings and your phone. I can help you get them back. Money and a place to stay too.”
“You want to help?” Her brows knit with distrust. “Why?”
The offer is a means to an end, my first point of bargaining. “In exchange for something.”
She leans forward, her eyes suddenly gold in the light. “How could I forget? You’re not the chivalrous type.”
“That also didn’t seem to bother you too much last night.”
“Last night I didn’t have many options.”
“Have things changed?” I ask, ignoring her implication—an insult that doesn’t land. She chased me. In some ways, she only has herself to blame. Had it not been for the night we spent together, I mightn’t have reacted as I did to the Pulse Tok recording or those drunken women. Or dwelled on Fin’s assertion that Atherton and I hate fuck this out. He fucked us both—that’s the reality. First me, then Eve. I just wasn’t expecting her to be a reluctant partner in this.
“Well, I’m not homeless.” She presses her elbow to the table, propping her cheek on her hand. “So, as fun as it was, I don’t need a repeat.” She brings her glass to her mouth, her eyes sparkling over the rim.
“Need is such a tricky thing.”
“Is it?” She sets her glass down, sliding her thumb and finger down the dainty stem.
“When it’s tied so closely to desire.” I watch as she continues to toy with the stem, wondering if her actions are deliberate. “You didn’t need to manipulate me into bed last night. You already had use of the room.” My answer betrays neither the tightening in my belly nor the discomfort of my stiffening cock.
“I don’t remember you being too hard to persuade.”
I swirl the amber contents around the bowl of my glass. Nothing to see here. Just two people tormenting each other. “I suppose that depends on your perspective.” I put it to my lips to conceal my smile. Or to prevent me from admitting how hard she’s made me.
“Oliver Deubel. You are a one-off.” But it’s a smiling kind of insult, accompanied by a slow shake of her head.
“I could say the same about you.”
“Oh, but you wouldn’t mean it as a compliment.” As her gaze dips, a curl springs free and dangles against her cheek. Unable to help myself, I lean across the table and hook it with my finger before brushing it behind her ear.
“You’re wrong. I have nothing but good things to say about you.”
She inhales a breath, then stills, the tiny, telling motion going off like a lightbulb in my head. Despite her denials, she’s not as immune to me as she’d like to be. The second reveal comes as I take in her expression: she doesn’t like that fact one bit.