Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The way he says my name so softly makes it impossible to maintain the professional distance I’m desperately trying to cling to.
“They’re just books,” I say weakly.
“Are they?” His hand settles on the back of the sofa, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the whisper of his presence. “Or are they fantasies? Things you think about when you’re alone?”
My throat goes dry. “That’s not—”
“Tell me something,” he interrupts, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “When you read about those powerful men and the women who surrender to them, do you picture yourself as the heroine?”
“No.” The lie is automatic, defensive.
“No?” His smile suggests he knows better. “Then why does your breathing change when I get closer? Why are your pupils dilated right now?”
“Professional curiosity,” I manage, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” His fingers brush against a strand of hair that’s escaped my bun, tucking it behind my ear with devastating gentleness. “Because I think it’s something else entirely.”
I should move away. Should stand up and leave and maintain all the professional boundaries I’ve spent years constructing. Instead, I find myself frozen in place, caught between the urge to flee and the much more dangerous impulse to lean into his touch.
“I think,” he continues, his voice a low murmur that seems to vibrate through my entire body, “that you’re fascinated by the idea of surrender. Of letting someone else take control for once. Someone who knows exactly what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need,” I whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words.
“Don’t I?” His hand cups my cheek, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “I know you better than you think, darling. I’ve read every book you’ve highlighted. Every scene you’ve bookmarked. Every fantasy that keeps you awake at night.”
He’s too close. Too perceptive. Too everything.
“This is inappropriate,” I try one last time, clinging to professional propriety like a lifeline.
“Is it?” His thumb traces my lower lip, and I can’t help the small gasp that escapes me. “Or is it exactly what you’ve been wanting all along?”
I should say no. Push him away and leave with whatever dignity I have left. But when his mouth hovers just inches from mine, what comes out instead is a breathy, “Yes.”
That’s all it takes. One simple word, and his control seems to snap.
His mouth claims mine with a hunger that makes my entire body come alive. This isn’t the hesitant first kiss of romance novels—this is raw need and barely restrained desire, and when his hands slide into my hair, angling my head for deeper access, I forget every reason this is a terrible idea.
I forget I’m his sister’s professor. Forget we’re in his penthouse in the middle of the afternoon. Forget everything except the way his tongue slides against mine and the solid heat of his body as he pulls me onto his lap.
His hands are everywhere. Tangled in my hair, skimming down my sides, cupping my face with a possessiveness that should frighten me but instead makes me melt against him. When he breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck, I actually whimper, a sound I didn’t even know I was capable of making.
His hands find the buttons of my blouse and make short work of them. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, but not nearly as much as the look in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me in my practical white cotton bra.
“Perfect,” he growls under his breath, and somehow he makes me believe it. Makes me feel beautiful and desired and perfect exactly as I am, not despite my practical underwear but because of it. Because it’s real. Because it’s me.
The way he plays with my nipple is terrifyingly familiar, and even more terrifyingly addictive, and I find myself squirming in his lap, desperate for more.
“P-Please...”
“Tell me what you want, Jayne.” His voice is rough with desire but still commanding. Still in control while I’m falling apart. “Say it.”
“I want—” I break off, embarrassment warring with need.
“Say it,” he repeats, his hand sliding up my thigh with deliberate slowness. “Tell me exactly what you want, darling.”
“I want you to touch me.” The words come out in a rush, half-desperate and entirely honest. “Like in the books. Like—”
“Like this?” His fingers find the edge of my underwear, teasing along the elastic without quite slipping beneath. “Is this what you’ve been reading about? What you’ve been thinking about when you touch yourself at night?”
I should be mortified by his directness, but instead I find myself nodding, beyond shame, beyond pretense. “Yes.”
His smile is pure masculine satisfaction, and I feel uneasy. For a moment. It can’t last any longer, with Patrizio kissing me again, deep and possessive, while his hand finally, finally slips beneath my underwear to find me completely drenched in my need for him.