Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
She’s the only woman in my employment who’s ever stirred more than my cock, and I let her down. I hurt her. She has every reason to hate me. Here I am, priding myself on discipline and control, and I hurt the only woman I’ve ever cared anything about.
Who am I? What does any of this say about me? I’m not who I thought I was. Above messiness, above feelings. Above guilt.
There’s work to be done. Books to be checked, numbers to be run. It’s days like this I wish I could hire someone to keep things going smoothly, but I don’t trust anyone as much as I trust myself. This is too important to let some idiot screw up which set of books is which.
Though at the rate I’m going, I could very well end up being that idiot. I can’t get Rowan out of my head. I’m staring at numbers, but all I see is her.
The hatred in her eyes. Cold, hard. The pain, thanks to me.
There I was, wondering if there was a way I could prolong our relationship. I know this is about more than fulfilling some kinky fantasy—there are countless women I could use for that, women who work under this roof. Women who will owe me money one day and just don’t know it yet. There are countless ways to procure partners.
I don’t want them. I want her. All of her, all the time. Every day. There has to be a way.
How does a man convince a woman to be in a relationship? The whole romance thing has never held much interest for me. I’m nobody’s idea of a hero.
I already sent her an entire apartment worth of furniture. Not as a bribe but as a way to show I care. She hasn’t even called to say thank you. I doubt she’d be any better impressed if I sent flowers, a car, the deed to a house. Besides, I don’t want to earn her that way. She’s worth more than anything money could buy.
Besides, something tells me she would see straight through it.
How does a man show a woman he wants nobody but her? I’m so desperate, even the idea of googling pops up in my head as an option. The woman has no idea what she’s done to me, how low she’s taken me. Maybe we’ll laugh about this one day.
“Boss? We’ve got a problem downstairs.”
I press the button to open the door, rubbing my temples as I do. Like I need another problem today. “What is it?”
Alexei looks ready to kill. “Glen’s back. He wants Rowan.”
“Excuse me?” I stand slowly. “He wants what?”
“Rowan. He won’t take no for an answer.” He gestures toward the open door. “He’s losing his shit down there. Screaming that he wants her, and he won’t leave until he gets what he paid for.”
I’ll fucking kill him.
My arm sweeps over the desk, scattering everything across the floor. It doesn’t do anything to calm the rage burning through me, white-hot flames scorching me from the inside out. To think he believes he deserves to touch her. To breathe the same air. She’s so far above him; it’s amazing he can even see her.
“I want him taken care of.” I’m staring down at my desk and the wreckage all over the floor. “Now. Get him out of here and see to it he doesn’t come back. He’s not welcome here anymore.” I lift my head, my eyes meeting his, so he knows I’m serious. “And if anybody else even thinks about touching her, I’ll kill them—all of them. I want you to make sure everybody understands that from here on out. Got it?”
“Got it.” There’s even what sounds like satisfaction in his voice. The door clicks shut, and I’m alone with my rage.
There’s only one way to quiet it. Not calling one of the girls up to dance for me. Not fucking someone, anyone, no matter how nasty I decide to get.
I decide to drive myself rather than asking one of the men to do it. They’ll be busy with Glen. One less problem for me to think about. It isn’t like we’re hurting for the money he gladly hands over. And it’s not as if there aren’t ten freaks right behind him, glad to hand over any amount of money so long as they can get what they need.
It’s late, at least for people whose work is done in the daytime. For me, eleven o’clock might as well be morning. It’s the time things begin to get interesting around the club. Yet most so-called normal people are inside, watching the news or something just as boring at this time of night. Traffic is light as a result, and it takes no more than a few minutes for me to reach Rowan’s building.