Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 52277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 261(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
But she always was.
She was always hot, but she wasn't always perfect. Sometimes she looked weary, indisputably tired. But when her make-up wasn't impeccable and her smile wasn't firmly in place, those were the times when he wanted to fuck her the most, when she looked almost vulnerable, and he wanted nothing more than to pick her up and wrap her legs around his waist and plow deep inside.
He shouldn't like to see her weary, but he did, because when she was noticeably tired, those were the only times when she'd slip up and actually let herself take a peek at him. Most of the time, she blatantly ignored him.
Dressed as she was, it would seem as if she'd have an attitude, but she didn't. It was incongruent with the way she looked, but she didn't put out vibes, she didn't try to flirt with him, as most women did.
She ignored him as if he didn't exist. It made the hunter inside sit up and take notice, but he always tamped it down and remained in control. But when she was tired and he caught her looking at him from beneath her long eyelashes, his insides would combust with heat and his veins would fuel with lust. His imagination would run rampant and he'd imagine himself stomping across the room and hauling her off her feet, sinking his hands into the soft flesh of her ass and carrying her to the room in the back. He'd strip her until she was butt-assed-naked and then he'd fuck her standing up, he'd come hard inside of her and she'd melt around him, her core hot and wet while she exploded in ecstasy around him.
The fantasy of fucking her screwed with him every time he came in here, and it continued to screw with him every time he left. In his brain, he'd already fucked her every way possible and then some. He'd fucked her standing up, he'd fucked her on all fours, he'd fucked her in his office while restraining her to his desk.
He gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, trying to dispel the image, but he couldn't. He'd had bad, bad thoughts about this girl. Never, ever before in his fucking life had he had thoughts like he'd had about her.
Usually when he thought about fucking, it was only about fucking. It was about relief. But not with this girl. He wanted to restrain her. He wanted control.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and let his gaze run up and down her length, almost against his will. He tried to focus on the reality of the situation and attempted to push the fantasies from his brain. But the reality kept intruding; he wanted to fuck her more every time he saw her. And his analytical brain knew the reason why. It was because she was so wrong for him.
She was exactly the opposite of the kind of woman he usually went for. The exact opposite of the kind of woman he needed to eventually marry. One who would take her place by his side and give his home life the type of conservative grounding that he needed, staying in the background while he expanded the family business. Whether he liked to or not, he was forced to entertain on numerous occasions, and those times would only increase the larger and more varied the Rule Corporation became.
He knew what he needed; he needed someone perfectly coiffed, someone who dressed conservatively, someone highly educated who could entertain his guests when the time came. But not the woman his mother had been hinting at lately. Never her. He at least needed to be attracted to the woman he'd eventually marry, and Courtney Powell didn't even make his cock twitch, no matter how sweetly pretty she was. She was nice enough, pleasant even. But he'd known her since she was a small child, and the close relationship their respective mothers had shared had left him with an almost familial feeling toward her.
Although the woman his mother kept pushing at him would never do, he realized that he did need someone from his world, not someone like the gothic witch across the room who wore spiked cuffs on her wrists, chains that hung from her belt, and a skirt so short her ass almost showed. He needed someone polished, not someone who wore black eye shadow and purple lipstick. He needed someone refined, not someone who looked as if she chanted to the dark lord of the underworld and wanted nothing more from him than to drink his blood.
No, the girl he couldn't drag his eyes away from was none of the things he needed in his future, so she might as well be off-limits to him. He ran his hooded gaze up and down her body again in almost painful regret. He needed a wife and she was so fucking unsuitable.