Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
And everything shifts.
Daphne Sinclair.
And fuck me, she looks…
Stunning.
The word doesn’t even come close.
It’s inadequate. Too simple. Too small.
There isn’t a word in any language that could do her justice.
She’s breathtaking. She’s devastating.
She’s fucking unreal.
My feet slow of their own accord, something low and deep tightening in my chest.
She’s wearing a long, black gown that hugs her body in all the right ways, the silky fabric flowing effortlessly over curves I already know would feel like heaven beneath my hands. There’s a slit up her leg, just high enough to make my mouth dry, and her auburn hair is curled, soft waves framing her face and cascading over her bare shoulders.
Then, there’s her lips - fuck, her lips.
They’re painted the kind of deep red that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to smear it with my mouth.
And the worst part?
She doesn’t even look like she’s trying.
She’s just effortlessly beautiful, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s by far the most stunning woman in the room.
And the moment her sharp green eyes land on mine, I smirk.
At this point, it’s instinct.
Because I see it.
The way her breath catches for half a second. The way her eyes widen ever so slightly. The way her lips part just so - like she didn’t even realise she was doing it.
It’s subtle, but I see it.
And fuck, if it doesn’t go straight to my head.
Straight to my cock.
Right then - right in that second - it hits me.
She’s mine.
I have to have her.
I don’t know when. I don’t know how.
But I know that it’s inevitable.
I let my smirk deepen, tilting my head just slightly like I’m considering something, just to see how she reacts.
She narrows her eyes immediately, straightening her posture like she’s trying to shake off whatever just passed between us.
I almost laugh.
She’s fighting it so hard, and dio, do I love watching her fight it.
But before I can take even a step toward her, my manager claps a hand on my shoulder, derailing me.
"Ah, Matteo," he says, beaming. "Come, there are some people you need to meet."
I barely suppress a sigh as I turn to face him.
Of course.
This is part of the price of being at the top. The constant shaking of hands, the networking, the small talk.
I know it’s part of the job, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
"Who?" I ask, dragging a hand through my hair, already irritated that I’ve been momentarily pulled away from her.
"Important people," he says cryptically, steering me toward a small gathering of men in tailored suits. "Be nice."
I barely hold back an eye-roll.
Being nice is easy - he acts like I don’t already know exactly how to play this game.
So, I shake hands, exchange pleasantries and nod along at whatever some club sponsor is saying about the importance of legacy.
All while my mind is elsewhere.
Because she’s still in the room.
And no matter how hard I try to focus, my eyes keep drifting back to find her.
"Matteo," one of the club executives says, clapping me on the back. "Excellent game last weekend. You’re in incredible form."
"Grazie," I say smoothly, offering a polite smile.
"We were just talking about the upcoming title race," another man jumps in. "Surely, you’re feeling confident?"
I take a sip of my drink, eyes flicking to Daphne briefly before answering.
"The confidence is there," I say. "But we don’t get ahead of ourselves. There’s still work to do."
"A good mentality," one of them nods approvingly. "That’s why you’re one of the best."
I flash another easy grin - the kind I know puts people at ease, the kind that keeps conversations moving.
But I’m still watching her.
Still tracking her movements, keeping her in my periphery.
I tell myself that it’s because she’s with Chapman, and I fucking hate it.
It’s painfully obvious that the prick has already had too many drinks. His posture too loose, his laughter too loud.
And he keeps leaning in when he speaks to her.
I grind my teeth, my fingers tightening slightly around my glass.
He’s exactly the kind of pathetic bastard who thrives in places like this. He doesn’t actually belong here - he’s not a player, not a coach, not an important executive, not even a fucking editor - but he knows how to talk, how to flatter the right people, how to make himself seem more relevant than he is.
I force myself to stay where I am, even as the urge to go over there, take her by the hand and pull her right in with me sits heavy in my chest.
She can handle herself. I know she can.
But I still fucking hate it.
"Matteo," my manager says, nudging me. "Photo time."
I exhale sharply through my nose, forcing myself to focus as I pose for a few quick pictures, some with former players, some with the club’s sponsors.
I flash my usual charming smile as I shake a few more hands and nod along to whatever the fuck someone is talking about.