Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
I shove everything on the bed off of it and position myself in front of my least embarrassing poster, a simple reprint of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, gazing soulfully out a window as a cig dangles from her gloved fingertips.
I suck in another deep breath and answer the call. For a second, my own camera feed floods the screen, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grimacing. Shit. It's not just my room that looks a mess right now. I've got my blonde curls in a messy bun on top of my head, there's still smudged mascara from last night clumped around the rims of my green eyes, and I'm wearing Erin's freaking Fashion Institute of Design & Management sweatshirt, the old one she cut the shoulders out of and then got bored with.
Crap. Dead giveaway where I am, if this guy is a stalker. Not that I go there, but I live close enough for the shirt to be incriminating.
I'm in the middle of tearing it off when the call connects. Thanks to that, the first thing I hear from him is a low, throaty laugh.
I tear the sweatshirt the rest of the way off my head and my eyes land on the computer screen. I freeze in place like a deer in headlights.
Definitely a scam, screams the only functioning part of my brain that remains. Because holy fucking shit.
He. Is. Smoking. Hot.
Icy blue eyes study me in high-definition. He's got the kind of cheekbones you could cut a steak with, and a strong jawline to match, complete with careless, dark two-day stubble that he clearly doesn't even notice is there. It only serves to highlight his perfection, like shading on an art drawing. I imagine running my hands through that scratchy stubble, feeling it rough against my fingertips, my palms, my own cheek . . . Or between my thighs.
"Tell me, Bonnie," he says, and fuck, this is unfair. His voice is deep, full of charcoal, with some kind of New England accent that I can't quite place. Maine? Boston? No, fancier than that. Connecticut, maybe, or Vermont? "Do you always begin your video calls with strangers by stripping?"
I swear, my cheeks could start a small forest fire.
"Uh . . ." I clear my throat, hard. Ugh, it's not fair. He's got a full head of dark hair. The razored edge in front flips over his forehead, just low enough to skim his equally perfect black eyebrows, which are currently arched in amusement. "I forgot I was wearing . . ."
Then I glance at myself on cam. Great. Underneath the FIDM hoodie, I had the wonderful fashion sense to don a bright red T-shirt with the Trix rabbit on it. Super sexy, Bonnie. Meet the hot rich man with a cereal shirt on.
"I'll be right back," I say. "I'm just going to change really—"
"Sit down," he says, because I had started to rise. I freeze halfway to my feet, laptop in my hands. His ice-blue eyes lock on mine, and I remember the hint of command in his messages earlier. Part of me prickles at him trying to order me around.
Another part of me, a much larger part than I want to admit, is turned on as hell by the calm control in his voice. This is the kind of man who tells people what to do. This is a man accustomed to being obeyed. One who won’t be afraid to take control, to dominate me.
This is not the kind of guy you ignore.
I sink back onto my bed, laptop balanced on my crossed legs. "Whatever you say, Pierce." I lock eyes with the camera, and I swear I can feel him looking at me through it, a palpable sensation.
His smile turns predatory. I don't know how to explain it—it's the same look he wore a moment ago, only now the edges of his mouth seem sharp, his blindingly white teeth flashing, his eyes hungry. "I apologize, Bonnie. I seem to have given you the wrong impression."
I blink at the screen. "What do you mean?"
"You asked me my name. It is Pierce. But that is not how you will address me. You will address me as 'sir.' Is that clear?"
Again, I'm torn. Half of me wants to rebel, to tell this asshole to shove it. The other half, my lower half, tingles in anticipation. Fuck. I can already feel my panties starting to grow damp. "Yes, sir," I whisper, and it makes me feel even hotter to hear those words come out of my mouth.
"Good girl. Now, Bonnie. I'm not one for beating around the bush. Are you interested in my offer?"
"Very," I blurt. Shit. Do I sound too eager?
He raises an eyebrow, and sits in silence. It takes me a moment to realize what I've forgotten.