Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Offer up a quick prayer of thank you, an apology for all the bad things I’ve done and a promise to not curse as much in the future to show my appreciation for what I’m about to receive.
Then I turn the handle and walk inside…
“Holy-motherfucking-shit.”
Chapter Two
I’d like to go on record and say that I lied.
But really…what did God expect?
I’m standing inside the minds of millions of readers. This place is the penthouse of every rich hero in every romance novel. Open floor plan. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking downtown Chicago. Hardwood floors. Spiraling staircase with glass rails. Artsy shit hanging from the ceiling that I’m pretty sure is just a fire hose that’s been sprayed with gold paint.
I toss my jacket to the floor and kick off my boots and pants. Wearing nothing but a sweater, I pad further into the room. My hand slides along the back of the white, leather couch, dips to touch the mahogany table beside it. Then flattens against the curved glass that stretches the length and width of the entire wall. It’s warm to touch. Not cold, as I thought it would be.
The view.
OMG the view.
Lights twinkle and blaze against the backdrop of a clear, black sky. Buildings staggered in height and lit in an array of colors loom high over the streets dotted with the smaller lights of moving cars. It’s almost overwhelming. The idea of waking up to this in the morning—watching as the sun rises behind the buildings...
This is so worth going to jail for.
If the rest of this place is as miraculous as the view, I might have to stay until Mr. Swagger gets home. Then I’ll make him fall in love with me. Shouldn’t take long. I’m a good catch.
I toss my bag of shit on the bar and open the massive, stainless steel refrigerator. It’s stocked with the type of groceries that can only come from one of those fancy whole food stores.
Both doors opened wide, I snap a picture. I close them and get a few more pictures of the kitchen and all its state of the art appliance glory. Then I take a picture of the view. The living room. Long, glass dining table.
“Yeah, baby.” I drop to one knee for a different angle. “That’s the one. Smile for the camera.”
To the right of the kitchen, there’s a small bathroom that really could be a little more elaborate, but it’s nice enough. Another door off the living room leads to an office. I recognize the aroma of spice and the hint of eucalyptus. Mr. Swagger smokes cigars.
Visions of my That Guy sitting behind his desk wearing nothing but a cigar and a smile causes desire to pulse through me. I want to dry hump his chair and rub my vagina on the walls to mark my territory.
Chill, pervert.
My eyes drift to the tall shelves lined with endless books that stand on either side of the door. A massive, wooden desk sits across on the other side of the room facing the entrance. I take a seat in the thick, leather chair. I spin until I’m dizzy, then check all the drawers. They’re locked.
No computer. No stationary. No personalized pens. I lift the big, gray rock on the corner of the desk that I guess is a paper weight. I touch the lamp and it lights up. I touch it again and it brightens. Six touches later, it starts to dim. Then I have to touch it eight more times just to turn the damn thing off. The only other item on the desk is a sleek, black phone with no cords that must be from the future.
I take a picture.
Upstairs, there’s a guest room with more of the same fancy décor shit. I roll across the bed that’s probably never been slept in—messing up the pillows as I do. My elbow bangs on the light gray nightstand that matches the other furniture in the room. It hurts like a bitch.
I trail my finger across the soft, white curtains on the wall opposite the bed. Behind them is another view of downtown. It’s a different part of the city but is still just as pretty as the view from the living room.
Back in the hall, I pass a door bigger than the rest with a small keypad next to it. I squeal when I try the handle and find it locked.
OMG…
It’s a sex room.
I just know it.
Filled with all sorts of torture devices and spanking benches. Walls the color of red. Shackles and crosses and nipple clamps, oh my!
I skip to the last door and nearly piss myself. It’s the master bedroom. Or suite. Whatever. It’s the epitome of a CEO’s bedroom. King sized bed. Navy, silver and wood accents. Another view. An oversized chair and ottoman where That Guy sits and reads the paper. Puts his shoes on. Or cradles a sub after he spanks the shit out of her.