Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He squeezed her waist, then gently pushed her off of his lap. “Good.” He nodded to the other seat. “Sit down. I need to talk to you.”
She looked down, her hand still gripping him, his dick at full mast and not listening to the itinerary. She let out an awkward laugh, then released him. “Oh…kay.” Adjusting her skirt, she moved to the seat, her arms crossing over her chest in the petulant move of a child. “This feels like I’m in trouble.”
Dario tucked himself back into his pants, wincing at the action, and zipped himself up. “You went to the professor’s apartment.”
“Yep.” She snapped out the word in an insolent fashion, and his anger mounted at her nonchalance. He forced his features to stay calm, his voice mild. “Why?”
She looked at him. “I needed to end things with him.”
Half the tension leaked from his body. “And did you?”
“I did.” She glanced at her watch, a cheap ceramic number that was beneath her. She deserved everything. A Rolex on that wrist. Diamond studs in those ears. La Perla supporting those breasts. Her own Rolls and driver. “I have to go to work.” She glanced out the window, toward the building.
“You’re fine. You didn’t seem concerned about the time when you had my dick in your hand.”
Her eyes flashed, and maybe he’d gone too far. But this … this was nothing compared to what he’d felt, watching his security’s footage of her strolling out of that prick’s place, a smile on her face. He’d lost it. He hadn’t moved a muscle, hadn’t broken a sweat. But mentally, he went six rounds with that pencil thin fucker. Mentally, he’d broken his nose, pummeled his face, and pissed on his body. Mentally, he’d professed his feelings for her and warned the man to stay the fuck away.
“I don’t want you to see him again. Or see anyone else.”
Another woman might have swooned at the words. She didn’t. She stiffened. “That’s a little hypocritical.” She grabbed her purse and pulled it over one shoulder. “Bringing up Ian when you had two women on the side and are still married.”
She sneered the words as if he was a selfish pig who just wanted a side piece of ass. And maybe that was what he had been. That was certainly how he’d treated every other woman he’d fucked in this town. But needing a fresh mistress wasn’t what kept pulling him to Bell. And that realization proved why he should be fighting harder to stay away from her.
“You’re a hypocrite.” The second time she said it, it was softer, sadder, almost hopeless.
“Gwen and I are friends, and only married on paper. You and he were, best I understood it, fuck buddies. I ended any physical relationships when I met you.” He swore and looked away. “I hate asking you for this. But I’m not asking. I’m telling you. You’re not seeing him again, outside of class. Period.”
Her lips tightened and she turned her head, looking toward The House. “I don’t care about Ian. I ended that, so stop barking orders at me. And what’s next, Dario? You going to tell me I can’t work? That you’ll cover my bills, because you don’t want strangers flirting and groping me in there?”
She tilted her head toward the building. “I’m not your employee. I’m not your girlfriend. I’m nothing.” Her voice shook slightly. “I’m nobody. And I don’t want your fucking phone.”
She opened the door and stuck a leg out, the night air coming in and doing nothing to calm his fever.
He struggled against reaching out, grabbing her hand and pulling her back into the car and against his chest. He fought against calling her name, just so she’d look back. If she looked at him, she’d see. She’d see that he wasn’t a selfish pig, that he did care for her, that his heart was struggling to find the right words without cutting his throat in the process.
If she just looked at him, she’d see how lost he was to her.
She stood up, shut the door, and walked away.
Twenty-One
BELL
The kid on Table 4 was newly twenty-one, with a watch on his wrist that cost as much as my car. I took the empty glass he offered and smiled when his unfocused gaze found mine.
“It’s my birthday,” he slurred.
“I heard. Happy Birthday, Conner.”
We’d gotten the story on him an hour ago, around the time that he’d taken out a second marker. Conner Brentwood. His Daddy owned fifty-six McDonalds in Texas. His Daddy sat to his left and had stared at my cleavage through his last three hands. They were down two hundred grand and neither seemed the slightest bit concerned about it. To Conner’s right, a stripper from Saffire moved a diamond-encrusted wrist and pushed one of Conner’s black chips toward the dealer.