Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Besides, good girls who play it safe don’t get to design winter collections worth millions. Maybe it’s time I embrace my darker side. Just for tonight.
The cameras blink steadily in each corner, and I smile at my reflection. My mother always said I had terrible taste in men. Might as well prove her right in spectacular fashion.
Nine minutes . . .
Eight minutes . . .
I force my attention back to the necklace. The thorns need to be sharper, more threatening. I adjust one with my pliers, trying to ignore how the shadows make them look like claws reaching for—
Seven minutes . . .
Focus. Work. Deadlines. Very important things that have nothing to do with the way his hand felt on my shoulder or how his voice gets lower when he—
Six minutes . . .
I actually manage to make progress on the piece, right up until I remember how his fingers trace my designs the same way they trace my skin and—Damn it.
Five minutes . . .
“Screw it.” I set down my tools with maybe a little too much force. The gems scatter across my workspace like drops of frozen rain, but I’m already standing, already moving.
Bad decisions never looked so good in Tom Ford.
I hit the studio lights on my way out, leaving the winter collection sleeping in darkness. Only the cameras stay awake, their red lights steady and watchful.
Chapter Twenty-Three Sloane
I push open the door to Cole’s bedroom. The room is dim, lit only by the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s waiting for me, standing in the center of the room, his posture rigid with tension.
His eyes lock onto mine—dark, predatory, possessive. Without a word, he crosses the space between us in three long strides. Before I can even speak, his hand is at my throat, not squeezing but asserting control as he backs me against the door, slamming it shut with my body.
“I’ve been waiting,” he says, his voice tight with restraint.
I can’t breathe, not from his grip but from the intensity radiating from him in waves. This isn’t the Cole from the workroom. This is something else entirely—something primal and unleashed.
“I’m sorry I made you wait,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.
His thumb traces my lower lip, rough. “Time is valuable to me, Sloane. When I want something, I don’t like waiting.” His eyes darken further. “And right now, what I want is you.”
He rips my blouse open, buttons scattering across the hardwood floor. I gasp at the sudden violence of it, electricity shooting through my veins. His mouth is on my neck, biting hard enough to mark me, his hands tearing at my clothes with a desperation that matches the desire building inside me.
“Making me wait has consequences,” he growls against my skin. “Tonight, I own every second of your time to make up for it.”
I surrender completely, letting him strip me bare in the entryway. His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat to him. The pain transforms into pleasure as his teeth graze my pulse point.
“Say it,” he demands.
“You own me,” I breathe, and something feral flashes in his eyes.
He lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries me to the bed. The sheets feel cool against my back as he throws me down, but my skin is burning everywhere he’s touched me.
“Don’t move,” he commands, and I freeze, watching as he strips, revealing the hard planes of his body, the evidence of how much he wants me.
His eyes never leave mine. There’s something different about him tonight. Something dangerous that should terrify me but only makes me want him more. All I can think about is Cole.
His touch, his taste, the way he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me whole.
From a hidden panel in the wall, Cole removes what looks like a leather case. His movements are deliberate, almost ritualistic as he opens it on the nightstand. I catch glimpses of metal and leather before he turns to me, something glinting in his hand.
“Stand up,” he orders, voice leaving no room for argument.
I rise on shaky legs, my nakedness making me feel vulnerable. He circles me slowly, appraising, before stopping behind me.
Cold metal touches my spine, making me gasp. “Do you know what this is?” he asks, tracing the object down my vertebrae.
I shake my head, unable to form words as anticipation twists inside me.
“It’s a Wartenberg wheel,” he explains, voice clinical yet somehow deeply erotic. “Used to test nerve responses.” He rolls it across my shoulder blade, the tiny spikes sending electric sensations through my body without breaking skin. “Every nerve ending . . .” he continues, bringing it around to trail across my collarbone, “. . . awakened.”
My breathing becomes shallow as he traces it down between my breasts, the pinpricks of sensation making me arch toward him involuntarily.