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)
“I’ll get Victoria. She’ll be happy to show you around.”
“I would prefer you.”
“You don’t get a fuck with a tour,” she retorts harshly, making me recoil. She’s standing in front of me, looking like she’s literally fallen from the heavens, and she’s using vulgar language like that?
“Will you watch your mouth?”
I expect her to tell me where to go, but she doesn’t. “Sorry,” she mutters instead. “And put my seat back when you drive my car.”
Now, I really can’t help my smile, and I’m filled with immense satisfaction when she starts shifting uncomfortably.
“And leave my music alone.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I bet she loved my joke. I watch her awkwardly shifting from heel to heel, her eyes working hard not to look at me. A hunch is telling me it’s because if she looks at me, she’ll fold. Look at me. “Are you okay? You look a little shaky.” I lift my arm, desperate to feel that smooth skin again. “Is something affecting you?”
She pulls back, and my fortitude takes a kick in the nuts. “Not at all,” she murmurs, looking away. She’s lying. I can see her hand twitching by her side. Her tell. “Did you want a tour?”
My smile broadens. “I would love a tour.” And a kiss. And a night worshipping every inch of you. And maybe breakfast. And more kissing. And lunch. I’ll feed her until she could burst, then rub her tummy until she’s ready to eat again. Or kiss again. I smile to myself. Sounds like heaven. I just need to convince her that it absolutely will be. She’s as blindsided as I am, albeit less willing to crack. Imagine how she’ll be when she does crack. When she accepts and embraces this.
I watch her virtually stomp out of the kitchen, frustration leaking from every pore of her gorgeous body. That dress is definitely too short, and I glare at a guy across the room when he catches me observing him staring at her. He blinks and looks away, his smile falling. Wise man.
I follow Ava, and she starts waving her hand around aimlessly. “Lounge,” she declares, not giving me time to look around, not that I need to. So I keep my eyes on the gentle sway of her hips as she leads on. “You’ve seen the kitchen,” she calls over her shoulder, giving me a small peek of her luscious lips. “View.” She points across the terrace before trekking back into the penthouse and stalking across the open space towards the gym. I smile, placing the catalogue I’m still holding on a table as I pass. People try to stop me, say hello, shake my hand, and I ignore every single one of them, my pace quickening to keep up with her.
“Gym,” she mumbles as she enters, before leaving as soon as my Grensons cross the threshold. I laugh as I follow her up the stairs, my eyes nailed to her arse. How I want to get my hands on her and haul her into a bedroom.
After opening and closing every door and shortly declaring what rooms lay beyond, she marches into the master suite. My bedroom.
Oh fuck, if she only knew she’d just entered the lion’s den.
“You’re an expert tour guide, Ava.” And sexy when you’re stroppy. I arrive in front of quite a boring piece of art, but there’s something about the shabby old rowing boats—something charming. “Care to enlighten me on the artist?”
“Giuseppe Cavalli,” she practically sighs, but it’s not a tired sigh. It’s one of admiration. She likes this painting. A lot.
“It’s good,” I say, studying the piece as she remains behind me. “Is there any particular reason why you chose this artist?” Talk. Conversation. I can’t believe I’m taking advice from John. The man who has been eternally single.
She’s silent for a while, and my skin’s hot under her scrutiny. She likes what she sees, and she likes what she felt when I had her in my arms. I imagine that’s what she’s thinking about right now. Not the painting.
“He was known as the master of light,” she replies quietly, joining me in front of the art. I look at her, willing her to talk and indulge me more. This is nice. It’s calm and peaceful. “He didn’t think that the subject was of any importance,” she goes on. “It didn’t matter what he photographed. To him, the subject was always the light. He concentrated on controlling it. See?” She points out the reflections across the rippling water. “That’s what’s so fascinating. It’s the light.”
I nod thoughtfully to myself, impressed and quite charmed, but what’s standing beside me is more intriguing. More beautiful. And, ironically, the source of light she radiates is really fucking fascinating. I turn my stare back to her as she continues. “These rowing boats, as lovely as they are, are just boats, but see how he manipulates the light? He didn’t care for the boats. He cared for the light surrounding the boats. He makes inanimate objects interesting, makes you look at the photograph in a different . . . well, a different light, I suppose.” She cocks her head thoughtfully, lengthening the column on her neck, revealing perfect, smooth, taut skin. Jesus, the woman is like nothing else I’ve seen. And what she just said about that painting rings so fucking true for how I’m feeling recently. Seeing things. Imagining myself in a different light. Her light. Because it’s fucking bright and blinding, and within her light, I’m just as inconsequential as Cavalli’s boats.