Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Camille casts a fleeting look over her shoulder, biting her lip. “Yeah,” she says.
I wait for the cars to pull away before I join her on the roadside. All that’s running through my mind right now, unjustified and inappropriate, is how relieved I am that Camille shares none of her parents’ traits. She’s molded herself into the person she wants to be, and despite a few blips along the way, she should be proud of herself.
“Interesting woman, your mother,” I muse, coming to a stop next to her.
“You mean pretentious, right?” She turns to look up at me. “You don’t need to be polite. She’s okay in small doses.” She takes her phone out, punches out a text, and clicks send. “The Picturedrome is a few streets away. Let’s go,” she declares decisively, strolling off toward my car. I deflate as I follow, reminded that the night is far from over.
* * *
The noise. Jesus, it’s unbearable. The speakers are booming out some hard, throbbing beats, and hundreds of kids in their mid-twenties fill the place, all drinking champagne. The seedy darkness bothers me as I scope the place. A few young women descend from every direction when Camille enters, with squeals of delight.
A glass of champagne is thrust into Camille’s hand, courtesy of Heather, and hugs are thrown all round. I growl when the hugs start coming from men. A few looks are tossed in my direction—the women interested, the men wary—as I watch Camille hovering a few feet away. She’s relaxed, still happy, and it makes me loosen up somewhat as I take position by the bar a few feet away and settle in, preparing for a long night.
An hour later, I’m at my wits’ end. I’ve endured some pretty torturous situations in my thirty-five years of life, but I can safely say, hand on my black heart, that the past hour has been the worst. Watching her shimmy around that dance floor is causing me physical pain. Every now and again, I fleetingly wonder if she’s purposely making this as hard as possible for me. Regardless, I’m a professional and I can withstand it. But I’m also a man, a man who hasn’t had any for too long.
I groan under my breath, trying not to look at her. It’s hard when she’s my client. A job. But damn, she’s perfect, effortlessly gorgeous and understated in her beauty and disposition. Not one man in this bar is immune to the attention she demands without actually demanding it. The other women, all beautiful, pale into insignificance with her in the room. I smile a secret smile, feeling an odd sense of pride.
Then I mentally knock myself out, flicking my eyes up to the top shelf of the bar. I need a drink.
“Hey!” Camille appears at my side, bubbly and smiley. “I need a wee,” she says, starting to shift from one foot to the other. “Wanna watch?”
She’s drunk. Her cheeky declaration doesn’t faze me. If anything, I’m pleased she’s advised me instead of dancing off to the loo and leaving me to follow.
“Come.” I place my hand in the small of her back, vehemently refusing to acknowledge how good it feels spanning nearly the entire width of it.
She moves with ease, but has me faltering in my steps when she reaches behind me and detaches my touch. Given the chance, I might have mourned the loss, or possibly scorned her for it, but she takes a firm hold of my hand instead and I lose all cognitive thought. My legs are still working, but everything else ceases to function. The softness of her delicate hand in mine feels too good to be safe. My heart bucks in my chest as I try to reason with myself. Her blond hair sways across her dainty back as she bumps and shimmies in front of me, taking the levels of torture I’ve endured all night to new heights. I can behave as professionally as I like, but my cock and all other vital organs aren’t playing along. Resistance is key. Being sensible is paramount.
I fall into a haze of conflict, unable to fathom what it is about this girl that has unearthed all of these feelings in me—feelings that have been dead for years. Since I took this assignment, I’ve tried to be strong, fought to find reason through the confusing feelings—to keep things in perspective. Now I fear the feelings are becoming stronger than my ability to fight.
Camille swings around to face me as we reach a long corridor, her hair wafting in slow motion. She’s still smiling. I’ve never shed a tear in my adult life. Toughness was trained into me and emotion was something I forgot long ago. I was happy that way. This girl is fucking all that up. She’s dangerous to me. I could cry with fucking frustration.