Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What do you want me to do? Kiss you in front of all these people? I will. Granted, we’ll both get in trouble, but I will.”
“You wouldn’t…”
I spun around toward her and pressed a hand against the small of her back, drawing her close. She nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice pitching high.
I shoved my hand into my pocket, producing one of two cards I always had on me when I was in the Laurent Towers Hotel.
“Fifteenth floor,” I said. “Swipe it on the elevator screen or the door won’t open. Ten minutes. We don’t need to be here when my father talks about workplace fraternization.”
I slipped into the crowd and disappeared before Lily could find me.
And before I lost my mind.
For all the disdain I tried to muster toward Célian, I couldn’t stop my legs from carrying me down to the fifteenth floor.
Overeager, reckless, and in serious need of intervention. That’s what I was.
Besides, he said ten minutes. I’d darted straight to the elevator, not even giving it a second thought. Phoenix—who’d given me a ride to the gala but cut his stay short because he was a recovering alcoholic and didn’t like to be around booze—was nice, but he didn’t make my heart clench and stutter like a lovesick puppy. He was funny and charming, but everything about us felt casual and overfamiliar. His voice felt like feathers on my skin. When Célian talked, it was like he squeezed the back of my neck, like a predator. And as much as I hated that Célian was staking his claim on me, Mathias was, indeed, a level of creepy more fitting behind bars than behind a network president’s desk.
He’d commented about how pretty I looked tonight, which was fine, but then proceeded to tell me about the champagne suite of the hotel, which was not fine. Of course I’d refrained from letting him know his son had already shown me around it, managing to defile me in six different spots inside said suite.
The fifteenth level was a private floor. In the elevator index, it was described as the Art Room. When I got to the floor, I swiped the card against the digital screen and watched a green light blink back at me. The door slid open. I stepped out into the room, my heels hitting the marble floor. The breath knocked out of my chest.
The vast, open room was full of replicas of famous sculptures—life-sized models of The Thinker by Auguste Rodin, The Discus Thrower and Venus De Milo by Alexander Antioch, and the Elgin Marbles. Then, in the center, Michelangelo’s David stood staring at me, imperial and almost patronizing, a towering more than six feet of sheer maleness—much smaller than the original, but just as striking.
My legs shook at the mesmerizing beauty and violence dripping from the sculptures. One thing they all had in common—they were stark naked, unapologetically erotic. The room had no chairs. No couches. Nowhere to do anything other than stand and admire the beauty in front of you. I briefly wondered whose idea this room was, but I didn’t have to think about it. Not really. I already knew.
The man who was as beautiful as a painting, as ruthless as art, as hard as marble.
I sauntered across the room, my hand brushing over the broad, carved chests and mouths slacking open in pleasure. The room smelled clean, cold, and of chipped stone. It was dimly lit, and mostly dark blue.
I thought about Dad, about the experimental treatment our new insurance company had offered him this week, about the hope in his eyes when he’d broken the news to me and the faith in my heart, its seed blooming into something I was afraid was going to grow beyond my control. Everything was moving too fast and yet not fast enough since I’d joined LBC.
“I’m scared.” I crouched down and stared at a marble woman sitting in a bath, fingering herself. She wouldn’t spill my secret in anyone’s ears. She would listen. Maybe she would even understand. Her face was defiant. Fearless. She wasn’t ashamed of what she was doing.
“My life is in shambles, and my father is dying. All the things I want seem unachievable, so far away. Is your heart lonely too?” I whispered, caressing her cheek.
I can’t fall in love. This is lust and confusion. This is what happens when you’re about to lose a parent and gain a dubious lover.
I’d come to this room to be with Célian, but Célian wasn’t mine to be with. If I told the Jude of three months ago what I was about to do, she would punch me in the tit, because an engagement was an engagement. The word’s definition meant he was committed to someone else.