Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Of course.” She pulls it from her bag and sets it on the table, and I rise without thought and move to her couch, lowering beside her. She shifts subtly.
“You’re very young to be such an accomplished designer.” I start browsing the file.
“How old are you?” she blurts out, and my hand pauses turning the page. Jesus, and I thought my brain-to-mouth filter was dodgy. Hers is completely knackered. But, God love her, she’s totally exposed her state of mind right now. Confirmed my thoughts. She’s attracted to me.
Yet that question . . .
It tells me age matters. It tells me she’s wondering. Fuck. How old do I look? My confidence in that department has been dented for the first time in forever. Maybe because I’m on unfamiliar ground with an obviously younger woman.
I start nibbling my lip, thinking. Avoid the question. Simple. I glance up at her. Her face, bless her, is bright red. “Twenty–one,” I say, and she snorts, making my brows rise, part amused, but more insulted.
“Sorry.” She swings her gaze back to the portfolio in my hand, and I start turning the pages again. And I’m smiling when the interior of my new apartment comes into view. “This, I like a lot.”
“I’m not sure my work on Lusso would fit in here.”
I find her eyes. What about you, Ava? Would you fit in here? “You’re right; I’m just saying . . . I really like it.”
“Thank you.”
She clumsily grabs her water. She’s modest. Reserved. It’s refreshing after being surrounded by brash women my entire adult life. But she definitely needs to loosen up. Just a little, though. Not too much. Her disposition is endearing. Her awkwardness. Her terrible attempts to remain cool. That’s refreshing too.
This is so strange, this feeling. My fascination. Her fascination. I smile at the photographs, feeling her eyes drilling into me. I move my knee a fraction and brush her leg, and she jerks, moving away quickly.
“Do you have a toilet?” She’s up like a shot, faffing with her dress, and I slowly rise until I’m towering over her.
“Through the summer room and on your left.”
“Thank you.”
I remain exactly where I am, not giving her the space she needs, forcing her to edge her way past. She’s holding her breath. I’m definitely holding mine. My eyes follow her hasty steps all the way to the door until the wood separates us.
“Well, fucking hell,” I breathe, falling to my arse on the couch and staring forward. Ava O’Shea. I don’t know what I anticipated, but she most definitely wasn’t it. I blow out my cheeks, scrubbing my hands down my rough face. Just ask her out. Simple shit. Except, I don’t ask women out. I get plastered and fuck them in every filthy way imaginable, and something tells me she wouldn’t be all too amenable to an offer to join me in my private suite. She’s nothing like the women I’m used to, and I’m guessing Miss Ava O’Shea isn’t familiar with this lifestyle. But is she curious? Could she turn after she’s seen what I offer here? I pout.
Frown.
Recoil.
No. This place, it wouldn’t suit her. She’s too . . . lovely. She’s more lace, not leather. More passionate lovemaking than animalistic fucking. I sense she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a fairy tale, and I know, better than anyone, that all I have to offer is a horror story. Darkness. Ugliness. Pain. Sin. Guilt.
She’s out of your league, Ward.
The door swings open and I jump out of my fucking skin. “For fuck’s sake, Sarah,” I snap.
“Sorry. I finished earlier than expected. Want me to take ov—”
“No.” I grab the portfolio and start flicking the pages. “I’ve got it, thanks.” I risk a peek up at her, discovering exactly what I knew I would. A massive frown.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep.” That’s a lie. I don’t think I am okay. I feel . . . weird. And gutted. Because Miss O’Shea doesn’t fit into my box. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”
That frown doesn’t leave her face as she closes the door. It’s an achievement, considering the amount of shit she has pumped into it. I toss the folder on the table and start trying to master a plan because, and it’s a fucking revelation, I am affected.
I’ve just got to know what’s under that navy pencil dress. Got to taste those lips. Got to feel those hips. Get to know her. Woo her. Then ask her out, Ward. That’s the correct etiquette, I believe.
All well and good, but I’m assuming she’s interested. I might have read this completely wrong. Perhaps she’s just off because she’s found herself at an elite sex club in a meeting with a man who, I fucking hope, breaks the stereotypical sex-club-owner type.
My eyes fall to her phone on the table. Hmm.