Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59445 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Wes!” she cried out, her body convulsing slightly atop me as her orgasm ripped through her.
I gripped her hips, moving her body when she couldn’t, lifting my hips to pound into her from below, pushing one orgasm right into another for her before my release zapped down my spine like a lightning strike, blurring my vision before I went slack on the bed.
Brynn folded atop my chest, the two of us breathing heavily as we came back down to earth. She lifted up just enough to kiss me, gentler this time, slower.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked, her eyes darting from my lips to my eyes.
“Anything,” I said.
“I didn’t even need a week.”
I grinned up at her, smoothing some of her hair back from her face as I cupped her cheek. I reached up and kissed her back, all languid and appreciative. Fuck me, I didn’t deserve this woman, but I would do whatever I could to earn her. I pulled back, nipping lightly at her bottom lip.
“I didn’t either.”
BRYNN
“That’s all I needed from you for now,” Amelia, my personal assistant, said after I’d signed off on a few projects needing approval. “Your meetings are all set for next week and the brand test campaign for the sportswear line is bringing back great numbers. The CEO sent this over…” She grabbed a very expensive looking box of chocolates from her over-the-shoulder bag and set it on my desk. “Along with a message that she can’t wait to hear final pitches when the deadline hits.”
I checked out the box before handing it back to her. “I’m really glad to hear it,” I said. “You can keep these.” She’d more than earned them and her paycheck the last couple of weeks, acting as a godsend to me after I hired her. She’d really taken a lot off my plate, and I was eternally grateful for her.
“Thanks,” she said with a giant smile on her face, slipping them back into her bag before pulling out her iPad and checking her list. “That’s all I have for you. Did you need me to set up dinner reservations with Mr. Rutherford tonight?”
My lips parted, an uncontrollable flush raking over my cheeks. “Why would I need you to do that?” I asked, practically sputtering. God, I was so not good at keeping secrets. I totally understood why we needed to but it was definitely not my best skill.
Amelia raised her brows at me, packing away her iPad. “Because you normally have dinner on Fridays with him?”
Right. Because we did that sort of thing all the time. As friends. As colleagues.
But Amelia wasn’t smiling at me like she thought we did it as those things. She was giving me a knowing—innocent but suggestive—look.
“I’m good,” I said. “Thank you for asking.”
“Perfect,” she said, shrugging. “I’m heading out then if you don’t need anything else.”
“Have a good night,” I said, watching her walk out of my office.
I blew out a breath, shaking my head. Who cared if my personal assistant had guessed at something going on between me and Weston? It wasn’t any of her business, and besides, she was an amazing assistant. She would keep my secrets and have my back, I knew it.
My phone buzzed on my desk, and I scooped it up.
Weston: Dinner at my house?
I smiled down at the text, quickly typing my response.
Me: Depends on what we’re having.
My heart raced as I waited for his response.
He sent back a picture of a beautiful feast of roasted chicken, fresh greens, smashed potatoes, and bread.
The air rushed out of my lungs, my shoulders dropping. It was a beautiful dinner, sure, but there was no tease back? No sexy banter?
Me: Be there in ten.
I hurried to my car after shutting everything down, my brow furrowed. He’d been so playful when we were out of town…now that we were back, was he going to switch to being strictly professional? Was this a dinner between friends or was this a dinner between a boss and his personal assistant? I hated not knowing, and the fact that he only responded with a picture of the food had me in knots.
By the time I punched in the code to get through the gates around his home, I was a complete mess and totally unsure of how to act. I guess I should’ve asked if there were different rules for different places in our lives—were away games an all-out free pass to be who we wanted to be without worry? Was being home a no-go zone for what was brewing between us?
The door was open, so I walked in almost timidly as if I hadn’t walked through his door a thousand times before.
“Weston?” I called, my voice rigid with nerves.
“In the kitchen!” he answered, and I followed the long hallway, rounding it to turn into the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry,” he said just as I turned the corner—