Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
“A lot of plans have been made without my knowledge,” I say tightly.
My father matches my hard stare. “You’ve been so busy with the reelection bid.”
He knows.
Of course he knows. A blind man could tell I want her.
A possessive beast is prowling inside me, ready to strike. Ready to dig my teeth into the next person who tries to take responsibility for Cate when that job is mine. I’m done neglecting it. Being away from her has been torture. The ninth circle of hell. Needing to wrest back control now—needing everyone to know who holds the reins when her safety and happiness are on the line—I reach sideways beneath the table and lay a hand on Cate’s thigh. Squeezing. “We’ll have the party. Keep it small and send me the guest list ahead of time. Press included.” I slide my hand inward, using my middle finger to tease the crotch of her panties through the skirt of her dress. “I’ll supervise the photo shoot tomorrow.”
“Will you?” drawls my father, lazily twisting his wine glass.
I press my fingertip to Cate’s opening and her thighs shoot together, flexing around my hand. Her breathy whimper is just loud enough for my ears. “Yes. I will. Send me the details and I’ll be there.”
Before I move my hand away, I cup the entirety of Cate’s pussy.
I mold it roughly in my hold and meet her lust-fogged blue eyes, silently letting her know that a lot more than her picture is going to get taken tomorrow.
If I can make it that long, it’ll be a miracle.
Good thing that—since meeting Cate—I believe in those now.
7
Cate
My knees are knocking together in the back of the limousine.
One second I’m nervous, the next I’m excited.
Underneath both of those emotions is a bedrock of self-disgust.
Two weeks. Not counting our illicit FaceTime call, he didn’t come to see me for two weeks. Yet how eagerly I opened my thighs underneath the dining room table last night, letting him massage my sex until I was wet and clenching. I’m still not sure if I managed to hide my arousal from our parents. Surely they noticed my red cheeks and one-word, breathy replies throughout the rest of the dinner.
The look of dark promise Tristan gave me before Rebecca and I left, so she could drop me back off at the apartment I now call home, is burned on my memory. It burned me all night, in fact, leaving me physically frustrated. Cursing me with puffy eyes and totally unprepared to have my picture taken. Thankfully, the lady from the spa left me a goodie bag that included under-eye patches for swelling that helped some.
Nothing is going to prepare me for Tristan, though.
I should have refused the idea of him supervising this photo shoot. I should have ignored him last night the way he ignored me. If it wasn’t for the regret, the desire, the longing I witnessed in his green eyes when I walked through the door last night, I might have. It would serve him right, making me depend on him and then disappearing.
Truthfully, though…I don’t want to be mad at him.
I want to be in his arms. It’s the only time I’m not nervous about this major transition I’m making from the backwoods of North Carolina to the rich Connecticut spotlight.
I miss him.
I ache for him.
So I couldn’t form the right words to reject his help today. I simply wasn’t capable of missing a chance to be in his reassuring presence. To have his hands on me again.
There’s a chance…I might be in love with Tristan.
Doesn’t two weeks of pining for him, to the point of nearly breaking in half, prove it?
The limousine stops in front of a glamorous hotel and I search the manicured sidewalk for him, my heart swimming up into my throat. Beating, beating faster. My hands twist in the hem of my dress, the one Rebecca picked for the photo shoot. It’s black, form-fitting, elegant but fun. There’s a low, sweetheart neckline and a skirt made from a dozen layers of tulle.
When I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I likened my appearance to a mischievous ballerina, but Mama knows what kind of image the Garners want to present to society, doesn’t she? I have to trust her.
The driver opens the door for me, offering me his hand.
I can’t help but notice the interest in his eyes, the way they skate down over my breasts, his breath turning short. Worried I’m not wearing the dress correctly, I tug my hand out of his grip and cross my arms, hurrying toward the building. There is a long row of glass doors leading to the lobby and I pull one open, throwing myself inside—
And I run headfirst into a suited, put together Tristan.
“Sweetheart.” He steadies me, concern drawing his brows together. “Are you okay?”