Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
He checked his watch. “We have two hours. That gives us an hour to fuck and an hour to get ready.”
“I’m not hung up on the time management,” I clarified. “It seems like bad manners to show up to someone’s house and do that within hours of arriving. If at all.”
“Hey, who has more experience with the etiquette around here?” he teased, slipping an arm around my waist as we headed up the stairs.
“I have to concede that point. But I’m not convinced that this is ‘etiquette’ and not an excuse to get laid.”
At the top of the stairs, he caught me by surprise, swinging me around to pin me against the wall. I was trapped there, his knee between my legs, his body flush against mine. My heart pounded; if anyone saw us, there would be no way to pretend we were doing anything else.
Damnit. He knew how fucking hot that made me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered against my ear. “You’re thinking, ‘what if we get caught?’ We could. A staff member could walk by. Or my sister. Anyone. They could see you and know what a dirty girl my princess is.”
“This is unfair,” I whimpered.
“Is it?” His hand fell to my thigh, and he bunched my skirt in his fist. “Or is it convincing?”
He burrowed his face against my neck and left sucking kisses there until I squeaked, “No hickeys!”
“You can beg me for mercy,” he reminded me. “No questions asked, and I’ll stop. We’ll have a completely chaste weekend, if you ask for it. I’ll even have them move your bags to that guest room, if you don’t trust me.”
His hand inched higher, baring my thigh.
“Or I can take you back to my room, and we can be filthy while we’re getting clean.” He nipped at my bottom lip again. “Choice is yours.”
I could have said “mercy.” I should have said “mercy.”
But what I said was, “Shut up and take me to your room.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
(Matthew)
The en suite in my bedroom was nowhere near as luxurious as the one in my apartment.
“The house was built in the thirties, and the bathrooms have barely been updated since then,” I warned Charlotte as she stripped off and neatly folded her clothes to go back in her suitcase. At home, she would have dropped them on the floor and dealt with them later, but here she was so uptight and worried about making a good impression.
I needed to get her unwound and relaxed as soon as possible, or she would snap by the end of dinner.
“I’m not judging you on bathroom quality,” she said, hurrying past the French doors with her arms over her chest.
I clucked my tongue. “I knew it. You aren’t after my money. You’re after my amazing dick.”
“Facts.” She went into the small, white hexagonal-tiled bathroom that had been the height of luxury nearly a hundred years ago and let out a huge sigh of relief. “Finally. Something normal.”
The shower was a claw-foot tub with a curtain around it on a frame suspended from the ceiling. The showerhead was modern, at least. I turned on the taps, with their original porcelain handles, and waited for the hot water to show up.
“You prefer this to my gorgeous walk-in with the rainfall head?” When I was younger, I’d thought I was practically growing up like a street urchin because of my outdated bathroom.
College had been a shock.
“This could be in anybody’s house. I mean, maybe not with the tiny chandelier.” She pointed to the offending decor overhead. “But I don’t feel like if I touch something, a guy with a red jacket and tall furry hat will yell at me.”
“That would never happen. You’re a princess.” I pulled her against my body and stroked her hair back from her forehead. I loved the way she looked at me, like when we were touching, she couldn’t see anything else. I returned the feeling a thousandfold.
“I’m your princess,” she said with a dreamy smile.
I pulled the curtain back.
I forgot about the shower chair.
“That’s embarrassing,” I said with no small amount of dismay.
Her eyes widened. “Wait. You once required the use of specialized medical equipment? I’m rethinking this entire relationship.”
I mock-laughed at her sarcasm and said, “I realize it might seem silly of me, but remember, I’ve spent most of my life as basically a sex god—”
“The contents of your childhood bedroom refute that assertion.”
“—and an orthopedic shower chair doesn’t scream eroticism.”
“Neither does the Lego collection you’ve painstakingly preserved since the mid-nineties,” she said with a wry twist of her mouth. “And, besides, an actual sex god would be able to make the orthopedic shower chair sexy.”
She had me there.
“I can make anything sexy. And how dare you doubt me?” I nodded toward the shower. “Get your ass in there and sit down.”