Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Hey, BR.” Seb peeks his head out and salutes me. “I would say I missed you, but my Netflix suggestions finally got back to normal.”
My jaw drops. “It’s my account.”
He shrugs and dips back into his room without another word. No one knows about Seb, still. In fact, he only agreed to host the dinner here on the condition that we compensate him with leftovers and a $70K bow-mounted rowing shell.
Ollie kisses the tip of my nose. “We could’ve snuck in a quickie in the airport parking lot if you let me pick you up.”
“Airport security would’ve turned it into prison roleplay in no time.”
“Remind me again why you fly commercial?” He rests his forehead against mine. “Oh, right. The polar bears.”
These days, I split my time between Potomac and LA almost 50/50 with Oliver following me back and forth nearly every week. I even got him to fly commercial once, which he described as a complete assault on his personal space and dignity.
“Oh, right.” Ollie whips out a blue rose from his back pocket, tucks it into my hair, and leads me to a stack of boxes. “Pick your poison.”
Turns out, the packages I stumbled upon in the corridor leading to Sebastian’s wing aren’t Oliver’s hoarding problem rearing its ugly head. All these years, Ollie never stopped picking out gifts for me wherever he traveled. Now he lets me open a new one each time I return home.
“Hmm …” I tap my lower lip, pretending to think. “All of them?”
The tension from this morning’s heated script reading melts away. To be fair, I can’t stay upset when Rewriting Us will be my first project credited under my new legal name – Briar Cooper. Usually, it takes up to three months to get names changed, but Oliver pulled strings to expedite the paperwork, so I can enjoy a few months as a Cooper before I become a von Bismarck.
“No can do, Cuddlebug.” He rifles through a few boxes, forming a side stack of ones he’s most excited for. “How else can I guarantee your return?”
I walk my fingers up in his spine. “I can think of better ways.”
His eyes snap to mine. When he speaks, it comes out thick and hoarse. “You have ten seconds to open a present or we won’t make it to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Okay, okay.” I grab the nearest one and tear it open, revealing the worn pages of a vintage book. The Woman in White. I bring it up to my nose and inhale. “I love it, Oliver. Thank you.”
“It’s a mystery I picked up in a small bookstore in London.” He watches as a stroke over the gold-leaf title. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he blurts out, almost randomly, “I like reading smut, though.”
I raise a brow. “Um. Okay?”
That came out of left field.
Then, I remember what I said the time we hosted dinner outside. The outlandish lie about my ex being an avid smut reader.
“Oh. My. God.” I can’t help it – the widest, most satisfied grin curls up my lips. “Oliver von Bismarck, are you jealous?”
His ears turn pink.
“Jealous?” He recovers fast, snatching the rose from my hair by its stem and feathering the petals between my breasts. “Not a chance. Just reminding you of the chaos you create when you leave me for too long.”
I back into the wall, watching his throat bob. Ollie’s finger hooks the front of my shirt, right between my cleavage, and tugs down. He kisses down my jaw, to my neck, to the swell of my breast. His finger traces up my inner thigh, slips beneath my panties, and slides into me with ease.
I bring his head lower, groaning as he nibbles on my nipple through my bra. “We have dinner.”
He mutters a curse, withdraws his fingers, and wraps his lips around them, holding eye contact as he tastes me. “This is dinner.”
“Blankets,” Seb reminds us from his room, no doubt eavesdropping on our whole conversation.
I ignore him. “Oliver.”
Ollie waits a beat, his eyes still dark with lust. “Fine.”
Before this gets out of hand again, I drag him toward the dining room. “What have you been up to the past few days?”
He adjusts his erection as we pound down the stairs. “Announced to the world that I’m the new Grand Regent CEO, caused stocks to nosedive just in time for the holidays, and donated to save a few oiled-up seals in Newport Beach.”
“Now that you’re not making the front pages of gossip rags every week, your image will recover – and the stocks with it. Wait. Did you say seals?” I stitch together everything I said at that dinner months ago, my jaw tumbling open. “Oliver. How long have you been fixated on one-upping Grant?”
He takes my hand at the bottom step. “Long enough to cancel the ski resorts in Palm Springs and Dubai, introduce myself to local eco activists, and drum up sustainable room service menus for all 6,000 Grand Regent properties.”