Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
She has such a negative perception of everything. “I don’t ask them to spy on you, Ava. I ask them to watch over you.”
“And call you if I don’t follow the rules?”
“No,” I say slowly, nudging her, tightening my arm around her neck on a roll of my eyes. “And call me if you are rolling around on the bar floor.” I look at the back of her head accusingly. “With your nonexistent dress around your waist.” That fucking dress.
She has no comeback, as proven when she remains silent and lets me walk us on to her office. I wonder if today is the day she gets over it and lets Patrick know that we’re together.
But . . . no.
“You’ve got to let me go now,” she says quietly, tentatively. We need to fix this. Her parents, her boss. They should know about us. I grumble a protest that she ignores. “What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”
“Think about you.”
She sighs. “I’ll be back at yours as soon as I finish work.”.
My God, what will it take for her to accept where she lives? “Ours,” I grate. “What time?” I need specifics. I won’t offer to pick her up. I know she’ll refuse so, although it kills me, and feels completely fucking pointless when I’m free, I refrain.
“Six-ish.”
There’s that word again. Ish. Translated, vague. “You like that tag on, don’t you?” I tilt my head as she shifts uncomfortably. “Ish.”
She reaches up, puckering her lips. It’s an opportunity I would never pass up. I seize her and get my fix, swooping her over my arm, kissing her madly. “God, I fucking love, love, love you,” I whisper, and she smiles, looking up at me as I scan every inch of her face, refreshing all of it in my mind.
“I know you do.”
Standing her up, I put my face in her neck, feeling myself swelling up behind my trousers. Oh dear. But it’s inevitable. Fucking work. “I can’t get enough of you,” I bite at her flesh, sucking, licking. “Let me take you home.”
She doesn’t have the chance to answer, her phone interrupting us, but I don’t let it deter me from my intended persuasion as she rummages through her handbag and I continue ravishing her throat. Which means when she silently groans, I feel the vibration against my lips. I seriously dislike how tense she’s become too.
I withdraw, finding her face. Don’t like her expression either. “Who is it?” I ask.
Her phone goes into her bag unanswered. “Just a client. I’ll see you at your place.” She moves away a bit too hastily. Hate that too.
“Damn it, Ava.” I grate. “Ours.” It’s our fucking place. “Who was it?” Has a stupider question ever been asked?
“It’s Mikael.” She has the nerve to appear affronted. Inconvenienced. Should I assure her that her feeling of inconvenience has nothing on mine? “Just a client.” She pretty much wrenches herself out of my hold and marches away, while I watch, astounded at her obstinate reaction. She disappears into her office, answering her phone when it rings again. The persistent fucker. Every muscle in my body winds tight, a stressed sweat breaking out, and my feet are moving before I have a chance to convince them it’s a bad idea. That if they carry me into that office, I’ll more than likely find myself in Ava’s bad books with not much chance of charming my way out of them. I know it better than I know my name. I know I should turn back. Take a breath.
And yet . . .
I catch the door before it closes and follow her to her desk, ignoring her colleagues whose eyes are fixed on my heaving, agitated frame. She sits, spins in her chair, and nearly falls off it when she finds me at the foot of her desk. Her dark eyes widen. Her mouth hangs open. Her stare jumps from the people behind me to the office behind her. And still, she’s more concerned about them than the fact that I’m clearly . . . upset.
My eyes narrow, and every part of my brain tells me to seize her mobile and smash it to pieces, eliminating the chances of him calling her again. But he could call the office. Email her. Drop by.
Fuck.
Her phone at her ear shakes. “Mikael,” she stammers, trying to gather herself. “I’m sorry.” A shake of her head. “Yes, fine.” She frowns. “Yes, fine,” she repeats. “Thank you.” And then she’s pushing herself back into her chair, swallowing. “Pardon?” she whispers. Dread fills me, my hands twitching. What is that fucking bastard saying?
She just stares at me. Stares, silent, while Mikael says . . . what? She clears her throat, having another check behind her before tilting her head at me in question. I can’t talk. Can hardly fucking move, I’m paralyzed by trepidation. “A month-ish,” she whispers, uncertain.