Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
I’ve thought about him inside that club all night. The images I conjured up are probably worse than the reality. Sadness replaces my irrational jealousy. As if we’ve already said goodbye.
I peer through the glass to make sure it’s Dex before opening the door.
“Hey, you’re early,” I say.
“Couldn’t wait to see you.” He steps forward and lifts his hand, touching my cheek.
Fire sizzles through me.
Nope. I can’t let myself get lost in him. Not now. We have too much to talk about.
I shouldn’t even bother. I should just cut my losses and move on now.
Before I get hurt.
He leans down and kisses my forehead. Cold air and the dry scent of woods and leather cling to him, circling around us.
My gaze narrows on a split in his bottom lip and a trickle of dried blood. “What happened to you?” I frown and pull away.
He touches his mouth and winces. That’s when I notice his reddened knuckles.
“Were you in a fight?” I ask.
“Sort of.”
I step back, allowing him all the way into the house. He closes the door behind him and shrugs off his cut, draping it on a hook.
Why do I like the way he seems to make himself at home here? How comfortable he seems to feel in my space.
“What exactly does sort of mean?” I ask.
He finishes unlacing his boots and setting them by the closet, then stands and faces me.
“It means, sometimes we have customers who don’t respect the ‘no touching’ rule and need to be taught a lesson.”
“So, you solve the touching problem by…touching?”
He snorts at my attempted joke but doesn’t seem all that amused. “The girls there put up with enough shit. We have a zero-tolerance policy for touching in the VIP rooms.”
Oh, so we’re just diving right into this conversation, huh?
I open my mouth, then stop myself. Setting aside the strip club thing, if he were the kind of man who stood by and did nothing when another woman was being hurt, I wouldn’t want to be with him. Then this whole prickly conversation we’re about to engage in would be pointless.
“Let me get ice for that.” I nod to the couch. “Take a seat.”
“I’m fine, Emily. Really.”
I stare at him until he walks over to the couch and sits.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask.
“Water’s fine.”
“I’ll be right back.” I hurry into the kitchen. I grab a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and a dishtowel off the counter. I pour a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and return to the living room.
As soon as I step out of the kitchen, I have Dex’s full attention. I hand him the glass of water, then sit on the couch next to him. I wrap the dishtowel around the peas and press it to the knuckles of his injured hand.
His jaw twitches but he doesn’t make a sound.
“How’d you ride with your hand all banged up?” I ask quietly.
“Didn’t feel it until I stopped.”
I study his lip closer. “Let me get something to clean that.”
“Emily—”
“Hold this.” I tap the bag of peas and he closes his other hand around it, then picks it up and presses it to his face.
A knife of concern twists in my chest. I hate seeing him hurt. Even such a small injury. Shaking it off, I hurry to the downstairs bathroom, grab what I need, and return.
He allows me to clean him up without too much of a fuss. Once I’ve done everything possible to care for him and prolong what I really want to talk about, I sit back against the couch next to him. He curls his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.
“Thank you.” He leans in, kissing the top of my head.
I sigh and snuggle closer. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“I swear it’s not a regular occurrence.” He kisses my head again, then lingers, as if he’s inhaling my very essence. “This makes it worth it, though.”
Butterflies return to my stomach. Whatever problems I thought we needed to discuss evaporate.
Nope, nope, nope. Focus.
All afternoon and evening, I thought about what I want to say and how to express it without sounding like a judgmental prude. I mean, obviously I’m not a prude. The man’s been in my panties more than any other man this decade. But now, after that admission from him, I don’t want to say any of it.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Emily.”
I take a deep breath and sit up to face him. “It bothers me that you earn a living off of women selling their bodies,” I finally say.
He nods slowly. “So it’s not just being around other women?”
“I’m not thrilled about that either.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “First, they’re not selling their bodies. We don’t allow that.” He must have decided to tackle one issue at a time. “That’s why I’m so vigilant about enforcing the ‘no touching’ policy. The women are selling an experience. A fantasy.”