Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“Amelia.”
“You love making a warning out of my name, don’t you?”
“I love it as much as you love making me do it.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t make it so hard for me.”
Under her hand, I flex my thigh muscle again. “You have no idea how hard.”
Her eyes darken as she leans closer, her eyes dipping to my mouth. “Poor Whit.” She slides her thumb across the tiny cut. “Does it hurt?”
“Sweetheart, the part of my anatomy that’s hurting is a little farther south than my mouth.”
She stifles a smile. “Should I kiss it better?” She pouts, playing the part to perfection. My balls throb, and if it’s possible, my cock becomes even harder. She only needs to move her hand a few inches and…
And George would probably get a very good show.
My heart ticks up as Mimi suddenly reaches out, her breasts brushing my arm as she lifts the crystal tumbler from my hand. I feel the loss of her heat immediately as she sits back in her seat.
“Is it good?” She doesn’t give me time to answer before tipping the contents down her throat. She comes up spluttering, the alcohol burn obviously not quite what she expected. “W-why!”
I chuckle as she gives a violent, whole-body shiver. “You don’t like whisky?”
“I’ve never had it before.” She shivers again, but not quite so severely. And the face she pulls? It’s a picture of violent distaste.
“It’s meant to be savored.”
“It tastes like soil and burns like fire.” She begins to cough, and I jerk forward, aborting the movement when her hand flutters to her chest and she gives a tiny huff of a laugh. “Why would anyone drink that? Not for the taste, that’s for sure.”
“Again, it’s not meant to be thrown down your neck.”
“Mmm, but it’s spicy now,” she murmurs, rubbing at a spot in the middle of her breastbone. “Warm and tingly,” she adds, rubbing her lips together provocatively.
This time, I don’t bite. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have plans to do so later.
16
MIMI
The car pulls away from the curb, the beat of my heart making a symphony with the sound of the tires. We’re here. Finally almost here.
“How far do you want to take this?” Whit’s fingers loop my wrist. Light from the streetlamp falls across him in ripples as he closes the space between, his steps as fluid as a cat. “How far, Amelia?”
“Mimi,” I whisper. I don’t sound very bold.
“I can call you Mimi,” he says, reaching out to run his thumb and fingers down a lock of my hair. “Or I can call you Amelia. But I can only fuck one of the two.”
“And Mimi doesn’t do it for you?”
“Mimi belongs in the past.” His knuckle brushes my teeth. “The woman in front of me, she isn’t a kid anymore.”
Why does that sound right?
“You’ve done this before.” The question is in his expression, not his words.
I laugh softly. “I’m twenty-four, Whit. I haven’t saved myself for you.”
“I’m aware.”
“I would have. If you’d been around.” I bite my lip from adding, I imagined it was you. His breath leaves his chest in a rush, and he looks stunned. Maybe that was too much. But as the doors to Whit’s building automatically swish open, he sort of jolts back to himself, his fingers moving from my wrist to my back.
“Shall we?”
I smile up at his serious expression and shrug. “Why the heck not?”
This time, there’s no security request to check my ID or the contents of my purse as, with a clipped nod from Whit, we pass by the evening’s security detail. My heels echo as we cross the sleekly stylish lobby, Whit’s hand a hot presence at my back. Before we even reach the elevator, the doors begin to glide almost silently open.
“That’s a clever trick.” I glance up at him, the sudden longing in his eyes catching me off guard. My God, this is really happening. “The doors,” I qualify unnecessarily as I resist the instinct to cross my legs as a sudden hollow throb strikes up in my panties.
“Apparently,” Whit’s low voice rumbles as he adds a little pressure to my back to get me moving, “the rich should never do something as mundane as wait.” He guides me into an elevator car of bronze mirrored walls and lattice screening. The doors no sooner close than he’s pulling my back flush to his front. His hands rise to my hips, sliding to where the fabric separates. The contact sets off a wave of sensation I can’t control. “They also don’t share space.”
“So this is your elevator?” My ridiculous question sounds high and my heart flutters wildly as he bends, brushing his lips against my neck. The sound he makes is more a satisfied hum than an answer. Not that I really need one as I sink into his chest, lengthening my neck for the path of his tongue. The sight of us in the mirror opposite, what a picture we paint. My mouth softly opened, my eyes wanton, wanting, and full of encouragement as Whit’s hands circle my waist. His dark head bent, his lashes are like a sweep of dark angel wings.