Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Me too,” I say, nodding. “I think trust is key in any relationship.”
Marcus smiles. “I’m glad we agree on that.”
“What about interests?” I ask. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“I don’t have a lot of that, but I suppose I like collecting things, and I’m also into fitness. I enjoy challenging myself physically, so I do a couple of marathons and triathlons every year, and I train in mixed martial arts when I can.”
“Oh, wow.” That explains his athletic build—and confirms my overall impression of him. Marcus is indeed an extreme Type A, the kind of man who accomplishes more in a week than most people do in a lifetime. “That’s hardcore.”
“What about you?” he asks as I glance down at the dessert menu, more out of habit than any real interest. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“I like books,” I say sheepishly, looking up to meet his gaze. I wish I could tell him I’m into something cool and sporty, like skiing or rock climbing, but walking is my exercise of choice. The only time I run is when I have to catch the train. “When I’m not editing books, I’m usually reading them,” I elaborate when he continues looking at me. “I also like TV shows and movies. You know, pretty normal stuff. Oh, and cats. I love my cats, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. “I like books too, by the way. In fact—”
“Would you like some dessert?” the waiter asks, approaching our table, and I shake my head.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“None for me either, thank you,” Marcus tells the waiter.
“We’ll just take the check,” I say before he can slip away.
The waiter nods and disappears, and I turn to find Marcus watching me with a frown.
“In a hurry to leave?”
“No, but I figured you might be,” I say honestly. “Clearly, we don’t have a lot in common, and you’re a busy man, so…” My voice trails off as Marcus’s frown deepens.
“Emma, listen to me,” he begins, but before he can finish, the waiter returns and discreetly places a small black folder in the middle of the table. In a practiced move, I snatch up the folder and open it, quickly skimming the lines on the check to confirm that my portion is indeed what I expected.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asks as I reach into my wallet and take out twenty-eight dollars—the cost of my pizza appetizer, plus tax and tip.
I look up to find his blue eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a hard line.
“I always pay for myself,” I explain, putting the money into the folder. “I don’t think it’s right for my date to pay for me when I’m perfectly capable of buying my own meal.” I start to move the folder back to the middle of the table, but Marcus reaches across the table and catches my hand.
“Emma…” His grip on my fingers is gentle, but his eyes glint harshly as he says in an even tone, “I asked you to dinner, and I’m paying for it. End of story.”
My breathing speeds up at his touch, and it’s all I can do to say steadily, “I understand the custom, but I don’t feel comfortable with it. I prefer to pay my own way.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Why? A dinner doesn’t mean you owe me. You don’t have to sleep with me just because I’m paying for your pizza.”
The ache between my thighs returns as his words bring up the images from my dream. “I know that.” My words come out strangled. His palm is warm and strong, keeping my hand pinned in place with no effort, and I feel like I’m burning up from the heat inside me. “It’s just my dating policy, that’s all.”
He stares at me, his eyes boring into mine, and the rest of the restaurant fades away again. It’s as if we’re completely alone, the tension thrumming between us like an exposed wire. I feel caught, utterly powerless to break his spell as he leans in until his face is less than a foot from mine.
“This is not going to end here, kitten,” he says softly. “You know that, right? It doesn’t matter if you pay for your dinner or not, because we’re still going to end up in the same place.”
I can literally feel my panties getting soaked. “W-what place?”
“My bed.” His eyes glitter darker. “Or your bed—or a hotel bed if you prefer. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a bed. I’d fuck you on the table or the floor, or up against a wall. Just tell me when and where, and I will make it happen.”
My breath stops in my lungs. I’ve never been propositioned so bluntly, and certainly never in those terms. Most men try to couch their intent in terms of romance, or avoid talking about it at all. Certainly, my ex-boyfriend would’ve turned redder than my hair if those words had come out of his mouth. I should probably be insulted, but I’m too turned on to work up any real indignation. Something about his unapologetic crudeness intensifies the wet heat between my legs, turning my insides soft and liquid. I want exactly what he’s offering: him, thrusting into me… on the bed, the table, the floor… Even up against the wall, though I can’t quite picture it with the difference in our heights.