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 laughs. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
I blink slowly, ending the call, falling into thought. It’s beginning to feel like the underbelly of Miami is resurrecting, and it’s going to be a fuck-load worse than when Danny Black ruled it.
47
BEAU
I come round to the sounds of clatters and clangs, my sleepy brain struggling to gather my bearings. I tense my stomach to sit up, and every muscle I possess screams in protest. I wince and hiss, so sore between my thighs. It’s no surprise. I was given no respite throughout the night. No time to take a breather. Not a moment to recover from one orgasm before he instigated another.
I get myself to the edge of the bed with some effort, my legs hanging over the side, and glance at my naked breasts. Bite marks and a collection of small round bruises decorate each one. I turn my wrists over, scanning the welts. Uninhibited. Carnal.
Necessary.
Another clatter sounds, and I inch my ass off the edge of the bed, taking a moment to stretch, trying to loosen myself up. My body is tight, my brain foggy.
I find my shirt on the floor, still sopping wet. No buttons. My panties lie in a pile of ripped material next to it. I snatch a T-shirt off the back of a chair, pulling it on as I stand before the wooden frame by the wall, wondering how many women have been tied to it. Strangers. I step forward and run my hand over the glossy, highly polished wood, my touch meeting a few divots as I go. On closer inspection, I see dents, pieces of the wood damaged, the wood stain worn off. From friction. From fighting.
Don’t fight the bond.
I look over my shoulder to the door when I hear more sounds. “Don’t fight it,” I whisper to myself, following the sounds until I’m standing at the top of the stairs. James is moving around in the kitchen space, cupboard doors and drawers opening and closing, utensils hitting the countertops. I would ask what he’s doing down there, if my mind wasn’t elsewhere in this moment. I back up and peek into his office. Every screen is alive with various news channels from across the globe, his enormous desk is busy with paperwork, and tucked away in the corner are all my painting tools and paints. God, it feels like months ago that he asked me to paint his office. I still need to finish it too.
I back out, pacing past the glass bathroom, and quietly open the next door onto another bedroom. It’s stark, basic, white furniture and bedsheets on white walls. And glass. Endless glass. Not at all child friendly. I bite my lip and close the door, trying the next door. Another bedroom. Another stark space. The final room I enter is a gym, all the equipment set at the foot of the glass spanning two sides. A workout with a view. A steam room. A sauna.
Glass.
And still nothing to suggest a child has ever stepped foot in the place.
I close the door and rest my back against it, my mind whirling. I should just ask him. But do I want confirmation, because then it’s real? Yet I know I can’t ignore it. It’s about time I took my head out of my ass and face what’s in front of me.
But what is in front of me? Who is James?
I head downstairs, seeing him still moving around the kitchen. He’s bare-chested. His hair is beautifully mussed, his face stunningly rough with stubble. He doesn’t notice me, and I stop at the bottom, feasting on the mere sight of him, watching him cutting some fruit before sliding it off the chopping board into a blender. The lid is placed on, his hand over the top, and then the whole space is filled with the whirling sound of spinning blades.
He’s making breakfast. Something so simple and yet so satisfying to see. I lower my backside to the step and get comfortable, every ache and sore on my body forgotten. And I just watch him. Transfixed. Mesmerized.
Falling.
But am I falling in love with him, or am I falling in love with this feeling?
I swallow and shake my head clear, just as the noise cuts. “Okay over there?” he asks, pulling the lid off and tossing it in the sink.
“Sore,” I admit, reaching for the handrail to pull myself up. I wince when my thighs howl their objection. Jesus Christ, I feel like I need a sports massage. I straighten, feeling like every bone cracks to get me upright, and James’s expression is nothing short of utter satisfaction. How is he not feeling it?
“Here,” he says, nodding to one of the stools opposite him. “Have some of this.”
I make my way over gingerly and ease myself onto the hard wooden seat of the stool. “What is it?”