Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“I’m afraid to ask what you think.”
At the sound of Faith’s voice, I turn to find her a few feet away, her blonde hair brushed behind her shoulders, her neck as creamy white and delicate as the rest of her. “You know you’re talented,” I say.
“No, actually,” she says, a flicker of something in her eyes. “I don’t. I never…” She lifts a hand and gives a wave. “I just don’t.”
I close the space between us, stopping toe to toe without touching her. “Well, you are.”
Her face flushes a pretty pink like her lips. “Thank you.”
There are footsteps to our left before we hear, “Ms. Winter.”
At the sound of her name, Faith turns to the several guests now beside us, who in turn rave about her work. She signs autographs for them, and they declare their intent to buy one of her paintings. They depart on that note, but another couple steps forward. This continues in a rotation of guests for a good half hour or more.
“You don’t take compliments well,” I say when an announcement about the Chris Merit auction approaching clears the hallway, leaving Faith and me alone again.
“Everyone can’t be as arrogant as you,” she says, an obvious teasing note to her voice.
“Confidence isn’t arrogance,” I say.
“Is that what you are?”
“No. You’re right. I’m arrogant, but it works for me and against my opposition.”
“You’d make a bad enemy,” she says. “My attorney says so.”
I close the space that distractions have placed between us, my hand settling at her hip, and I do not miss the slight tremble of her body in response. “And what do you think, Faith?” I ask.
“That there are a million reasons in my head right now that say you’re a bad idea.”
“Then why am I touching you right now?”
“Because you touching me still feels better than you not touching me,” she says, surprising me with her quick, direct answer. “And because tonight, I’m allowing myself the freedom to be someone and something I cannot be tomorrow. That’s my hard limit. No tomorrow.”
“Hard limit,” I say, the term implying knowledge of a world I know well but did not expect her to know at all.
“I know that this is mine,” she says, neither confirming nor denying her understanding of a broader, kinkier meaning.
“Negative,” I say. “I do not accept that limit.”
“It’s my hard limit.”
“I don’t accept that limit,” I repeat.
“Then we end before we begin,” she says, backing away and leaving me two choices: let my hand fall away from her hip or pull her close.
“It began the minute we met,” I say, letting my hand fall away from her rather than pulling her close. Seeking that free will I’ve told her I both want and will have. “And if we’re really done,” I say, “why are you still standing a step from my reach, instead of walking away? And why are we both thinking about how fucking good fucking each other will be?”
“One night,” she breathes out.
I close the step she’s put between us, but I don’t touch her, my voice low, for her ears only. “I could spend one night with just my tongue on your body and never get inside you. In fact, if I had my way, your dress would be up, and I’d be finding out how sweet you are right now.”
“That was—” she begins.
“Dirty?” I supply. “Yes. It was. And I am. And so are you, or you wouldn’t know what a hard limit is.” I lower my head, my lips near her ear, breath intentionally warm on her neck. “You have no idea how dirty I can be,” I say, “but you will. And soon.”
“You think—” she begins, only to be cut off as we both hear, “Faith,” spoken from behind us.
My jaw clenches at the sound of Josh’s voice, which denies me the end of that sentence, my head lifting, as Faith faces Josh and I step to her side. “They’re unveiling the Merit piece in less than twenty minutes,” he says, focused on Faith. “It would look good for you to be there.” He glances over at me. “Are you going to bid?”
“Depends on what it looks like,” I say.
His expression sours. “It’s a Chris Merit one of a kind.”
“And if it fits well with the one already on my wall,” I say, “I’ll buy it.”
“You already own one?”
“He knows Chris,” Faith supplies. “I’m pretty sure he can get a painting when he wants one.”
Josh arches a brow. “Is that right?” he asks, looking at her, but I watch his eyes narrow, noting the sly intent they register before he looks at me and adds, “You know. Since you’re obviously trying to win over Faith, supporting her work would go a long way. If you can afford that Chris Merit painting, why not buy her entire collection?”