Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75770 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
He slides his hands underneath my skirt and panties and breaks the kiss. “Fuck, you’re wet.” He licks his fingers. “And even sweeter than you were last night.”
I don’t reply. I simply lift my skirt, wriggle out of my panties, and then present myself to him doggy style.
I hear him rip open the condom packet, and a second later he’s inside me, fucking me right here in the limo. He burns through me as if his cock is made of fire, and the stretch—the exquisite stretch.
“Tight,” he grits out. “Fuck. So tight.”
“That’s it,” I say. “Fuck me, Brett. Damn, you’re hitting my G-spot. I’m going to—”
I explode around him, clenching my teeth so I don’t yell his name. I soar over the hills of Jamaica, letting the climax roll through me, take me to new heights.
Because I need—and want—this as much as Brett does.
“That’s right, baby,” he says. “You come for me. Come all over my big cock.”
He milks more and more orgasm out of me until I’m spent.
But he’s still thrusting. Still burning though me. Still—
“Fuck, Sienna! Fuck!” He jams his cock into me, releasing.
We stay joined for a few precious moments, but then he pulls out. By the time I turn around and shrug back into my panties, he’s already disposed of the condom.
“Did you need that as much as I did?” he asks.
“Maybe more,” I reply.
He lifts his eyebrows, but I choose not to elaborate. We’re not in love. Not even close. It was a fuck. He broke his rule for me because he needed a fuck, and he didn’t have to worry that I’d fall in love with him.
Because I’m in love with someone else.
Damn it. I wouldn’t mind falling in love with Brett Dawson. He’s a catch. And like he said, we get each other.
But until I resolve my feelings for Leroy once and for all, my heart isn’t my own to give. Brett was right about that.
I grab the carry-on that’s sitting across from me.
“Hey.” He touches my arm. “I’ll get the driver. He’ll drive you up to the terminal. It’ll be a half-hour walk from here.”
I smile and push his hair off his sweaty brow. “I’d prefer to walk. I have enough time.”
“I’m not sure you do,” he says.
I smile. “I’ll make it.” I scramble out of the limo with my carry-on.
I probably do have enough time to get to the terminal, get through security, and make my flight.
But if I miss it?
It might not be the worst thing.
EPISODE 85
RIVER OF RIVALRY
Emily
Four years earlier…
I stand silently in the corner of the studio, my gaze fixed on the mannequin dressed in my latest design. The fabric falls just right, the colors vibrant and balanced. I’ve worked countless nights on this collection, hoping it would be my breakthrough at Elizabeth Harrington London, the fashion house where I work. I draw in a deep breath, grab my sketches, and walk to the large meeting room.
The room buzzes. Today our creative director, Charlotte Ainsworth, will choose the lead design for Paris Fashion Week. My heart races with a mix of excitement and anxiety. This could be my moment, the recognition I’ve been craving.
Then he walks in. Jake Bosworth, Elizabeth Harrington’s grandson. He’s bloody charming, damn him, with his perfectly coiffed black hair and confident smile, but everyone in the studio knows his designs are…
Well…blah. Lackluster. Really, I'm being too kind. They're bloody awful.
Charlotte begins her rounds, offering critiques and suggestions. I wait patiently, clutching my sketchbook, my mind racing through each line I’ve drawn, every stitch I’ve imagined. When she finally reaches me, a flicker of hope surges through me.
But Charlotte barely glances at my sketches. “Interesting, Emily. These show a lot of promise.”
Interesting? Promise? My heart sinks.
Next, Charlotte stops in front of Jake and smiles. “Brilliant, Jake. Truly captivating.” She claps her hands.
My colleagues and I reluctantly join in the applause and offer Jake our half-hearted congratulations. There’s an unspoken understanding among us—a shared frustration we’ve all come to accept. Talent takes a backseat to family ties. To privilege. At least here at Elizabeth Harrington London.
I walk back to my desk, my mind racing. Do I keep fighting this losing battle? Do I keep pouring my soul into designs that will never see the runway?
I glance at my sketches again, their lines and colors blending perfectly into lovely gowns. They deserve to be seen, to be worn, to be admired. I can’t let this setback define me or my future in fashion. I must find a way to showcase my work on my own terms.
I can apply to another house here in London, where I’m comfortable, or I can take a leap without a net beneath me.
I can leave Great Britain.
Go to Paris.
Milan.
New York.
One of the other fashion capitals of the world.
But first…I need a plan.
Present Day…