Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“You look gorgeous, Rose.”
I look up to the mirror as I secure a diamond in my ear, calling on the smile he loves so much. “Thank you.” I turn and rest my backside on the dresser in Perry’s hotel suite of the Aria. He’s wearing one of his signature navy suits. His power suit, that’s what he calls it.
He approaches, and I quickly locate the invisible barrier and pull it down so that when he touches me, I won’t shudder. The tip of his finger rests on my forearm. “I’m not sure how I feel about you out on your own while I’m taking care of business.”
Perry Adams is not a stupid man. He insisted I accompany him to Vegas where he’s gambling with the best of them, rubbing horns with other political types, however, outside of this suite, we won’t be seen together. But he needs to know I’m close. Needs to fuck me to make him feel even more powerful after he’s been busy fighting legal battles by day and aiming for mayor of Miami by night. And maybe I’m here because he’s possessive. He doesn’t want me back in Miami where there’s no one to watch me. Where I could potentially meet someone closer to my twenty-five years. Someone single. I laugh inside at the very notion. It’s a ridiculous notion. If I ever feel like drowning with a weight tied to my ankles, I might entertain the idea of meeting someone off my own back. I long ago accepted that this is my life. Looking pretty. Doing what I’m told, because I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way I have to survive, to function, and now it’s all I know. My life isn’t my own anymore, but at least I’m still breathing. And at least my son is safe.
“I love you,” Perry whispers, pressing his chest into my front, his lips on my neck. “I had no idea that I needed you in my life until I found you all those weeks ago. And I hate that I can’t be with you properly. But you understand, don’t you, Rose?”
“I understand.” I close my eyes while he sucks and slaps wet kisses all over my throat. “We don’t want to make you late for your game.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Perry Adams, it’s that he’s a stickler for promptness. He has ten minutes to make it to the casino floor.
“I love how you know me so well.”
Because it’s my job to know you so well, I think, but say, “Of course,” pulling a lavish smile from nowhere. For a man who is supposedly in love with me, he doesn’t know me very well. He doesn’t realize the smiles are fake. The orgasms are fake. There’s no way he’ll ever know my whole fucking life is fake. That I’m simply a tumbleweed, the wind controlling where I go. A powerful wind . . . an invisible force. The Devil.
“Terrance will walk you down when you’re ready.” Perry pulls away and takes my hand, kissing the top. “And no taking the stairs.” He cocks an eyebrow, reaching for my back and rubbing at the bruise there.
“I’m just a little clumsy.” I smile mildly. “It’s nothing.”
“You knocked yourself up pretty bad. It’s been a week and you’re still black and blue.” He gives me another kiss before taking a call and strolling out of the swanky suite. “We have a new investor,” he says as he goes, piquing my interest. He does? “They’re getting me the cash to pay back Black. The Brit can go fuck himself.”
Perry has a new backer? The moment he’s gone, I look around for my cell, thinking I need to call through this news. But Terrance coughs, winning my attention, and motions to the heels by my feet. Later, I tell myself. Call it in later.
I slip them on, taking me nearer to six foot. Perry Adams is playing with fire, and it seems I am not the only flame. Danny Black can go fuck himself?
When we make it downstairs, I’m escorted to the bar and handed a glass of champagne. The good stuff. I see Perry in the distance at the blackjack table being lavished with attention by various men, all obviously politicians. He’s smiling, lapping it all up—the smacks on his back, embracing the onslaught of well wishes. Word has it he’s practically won already, the past few weeks campaigning being a huge success. Miami loves him. But if Black can go fuck himself, who will be funding him now?
“Don’t go far. He’ll want to see you when he’s done,” Terrance grunts, and I look up at him. He’s not scowling at me, but he’s not exactly showering me with friendliness. He doesn’t like me. The feeling is mutual. It’s fascinating how those watching their bosses choosing to cheat on their wives always blame the whore. It’s never the man’s lack of self-control or respect of vows that’s questioned.