Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
He steps back, away from me. His eyes are crystal clear pits of blue. Sharp, like his jaw, intense, like his persona, and his eyebrows are heavy, making him appear as unfriendly as he feels. His wavy hair’s darkened by sweat. He’s stupidly stunning. “I ran over on my meeting.” His words are quiet. Rough.
I can’t look at him. His eyes are too astute, his lazy gaze potent. I feel like he’s tapping in on my thoughts. “I called, but you obviously couldn’t hear me.” Because you were lost in some pretty intense-looking kink. “I would have left”—I motion back to the elevator— “but I don’t have a keycard or a code.”
He points to the button above the slot for the card. “You don’t need a card or a code to leave, just to enter.”
“Oh.” I inwardly shake my head to myself. I could have left? I could have spared us both this embarrassment? Yet, as I look at him, he doesn’t look very embarrassed. He just looks inconvenienced. “You know, if now’s not a good time, I could come back.”
“Now’s fine.” He turns on his bare feet and heads to the open kitchen on the other side of the room. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I follow him, glancing around again. More glass. “Nice place.”
“Thanks.” He opens a tall glass-fronted fridge and pulls out a beer, twisting the cap off and resting back on the countertop as he takes a slug.
I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t look him in the eye, so I take another pointless peek around his apartment.
“Do you struggle with eye contact?” he asks, and I dart my stare back to his. He regards me as he takes another swig of his beer. “Or is it just me?”
I laugh on the inside. Only when I’ve unexpectedly stumbled upon your orgy, and then have to pretend I’ve not seen your gloriously naked body pounding relentlessly into a woman.
Holding his eyes, if only to make a point, I scratch through my mind for what to say. This guy is dark. How dark is yet to be determined, but my intuition tells me very dark. I’ve been submerged in enough darkness in my time to recognize a damaged soul. To sense someone’s anger. To feel their pain. I’m a walking, talking example.
What’s his story?
It’s like he’s purposely trying to make me feel uncomfortable, and I hate him for succeeding. What I was faced with before isn’t helping, of course, but he doesn’t know I saw.
Or does he?
He cocks his head, and I cock mine right back as he watches me. “You know, I think I will have that drink.” Give me all the alcohol, for the love of God.
He nods mildly, pulling the fridge open, eyes still on me. “Beer?”
He’s goading me, and that pisses me off. “Please.” I’ll feel like I’ve failed if I look away, so, like a stubborn fool, I maintain our eye contact, refusing to let him win. I will not give him that power.
He sets his bottle aside to unscrew the cap of mine and then hands it to me. It’s all I can do not to scowl as I accept it and take a sip.
Eyes. Still. On. Me.
I’m beginning to think he knows I saw what was going on upstairs. The way he’s being, this staring shit. He really is trying to make me feel uncomfortable. Why? I am Jaz Hayley’s daughter. I absolutely will not break, and as if he’s read my mind, I see the tiniest of smirks crack the straightness of his lips. And then he looks away, running a hand through his messy, sexed-up waves.
“Let me show you my office.” He pushes himself off the countertop and heads for the stairs, and I stare at his wide shoulders as he goes.
“Your office?” I call, and he stops, his foot on the first step, looking back.
“You’re here to paint, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but you mentioned your bedroom.” Why the hell would I point that out? I don’t want to step foot in his bedroom.
“I did?” he questions. “I meant my office.”
“But all I’ve seen is glass.”
His eyebrows lazily rise, and I die on the inside, looking away. “But you’ve not seen upstairs.”
Oh God, Beau, just leave. Go. Put yourself out of this misery. But I don’t. Instead, I say nothing and follow, kicking my flip-flops off again at the bottom of the stairs before climbing them, my eyes nailed to the backs of his thighs.
We round the corner at the top and, naturally, my focus lands on the door into his dungeon. “Do you live alone?” I ask, making idle chitchat in an attempt to break the ice. I’ve never met a man so cold.
He passes the first door, the door, and looks back at me. “Yes.”