Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I dip my face, and I kiss her there. She tastes so sweet, so tempting. Soon, I’m moaning as I layer open-mouthed caresses along the column of her throat. My hand plays with the hem of her skirt, and I’m flirting with the red zone of danger.
Kissing her is one thing. Touching her intimately is another.
If I can just maintain that line…
I’ll indulge in one or two or ten more seconds, and I won’t do it again.
But then she slides one hand into my hair while the other hand wraps around my hand. On her thigh. She threads her fingers through mine.
My hand buzzes. Everything tingles. My whole body is vibrating, and I can’t stand how good she feels. I break the kiss, meet her lust-struck gaze.
But I don’t just see lust in her shimmery eyes.
I see confidence. I see certainty. I see a woman with a plan. She doesn’t look away as she moves our joined hands under her skirt.
Warning signs flash, and still…I go.
She’s guiding my palm along the silky skin of her inner thigh.
“Harlow, honey,” I warn, the affectionate nickname slipping out, unbidden.
“Honey?” she asks, but it’s hardly a question. More a dirty delight.
I don’t answer her.
I don’t need to.
We both know what I just did.
She’s like a gorgeous silhouette in a lighthouse, guiding a sailor home. I follow her spotlight as her hand drags mine up her flesh, closer and closer still.
I can feel her heat. I can sense her wetness.
What kind of panties does she wear? How long would it take to make her come? What does she sound like when she loses control?
Wicked thoughts lash my mind. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut as my fingers come this close to crossing a terrible line.
For a few tense seconds, I hope for a fire alarm, a phone call, a knock on the door.
But I’ll have to be my own knock.
Like I’ve been burned, I yank away, step back, drag my hand across my mouth. Like I can wipe away the taste of her.
“I can’t,” I mutter, shaking my head, ashamed.
Or perhaps I’m just shocked I’ve let it go this far.
I can’t mess around with my business partner’s twenty-one-year-old daughter.
Her eyes widen in question. “Why?”
It’s a valid thing to ask when someone’s staring at you like they want to tear off your clothes.
But the answer is too easy.
Resigned and frustrated, I sweep my arm out to indicate the office, then the door, then somehow all of New York. “Because of all this,” I say, angry with myself. “Lucky 21, and the business and…everything.”
Her eyes shine.
Her lower lip quivers.
Oh, fuck. I can’t stand making her sad. I advance toward her then stop, thinking better of it. Thinking. Finally thinking.
“Harlow,” I say softly.
“Yes?”
“It’s just too risky,” I say, imploring her to understand. I don’t enumerate all the things that could go wrong—I’m risking my reputation as well as this company, and her father could turn on her too. He could take his support away from her. She doesn’t even have a real job yet. I can’t risk her future either. “And you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She purses her lips and nods. “I understand.” Then she draws a breath and seems to erase whatever emotions flickered through her moments ago. “I should go.”
I hate the thought, but I nod crisply. “You should,” I say, and the look on her face is so tough, so strong.
She reaches for the door, looking wise beyond her years, strong beyond her age.
“Good night,” she says in a tone I’ve never heard from her before. Both sad and cold. Like the tone is a necessity.
“Good night.”
She leaves, and when the tap of her shoes fades, the elevator doors ding closed, I slump on my couch and drop my head in my hands, wishing my chest didn’t feel so damn hollow.
17
EVERYONE WANTS SOMETHING
Bridger
The problem is I don’t feel hollow when I return home later that night.
I feel jangly. Jittery.
I replay those ten minutes incessantly.
I can’t stand being in my apartment alone with these rampant thoughts, so I head for a late yoga class. Axel says he’ll meet me on the corner.
On the way out of the building, my doorman calls out to me. “Hey, Mr. James. I have something for you,” he says from his post at the gleaming black desk in the lobby. He waves me over like he’s got a secret to share.
“Hey, Randy. What have you got?”
The mustached man in the navy-blue uniform lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “My cousin Joey has a script. New action series centered around a group of co-workers, and each one has special powers. It’s gonna be epic. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow,” he says with a wide smile.
I flash a smile back. Not because I’m eager to read another script. But because this is my life. Everyone, everywhere has a TV show in them, and they’re always asking me to read them. To do to their shows what Ian and I did to Sweet Nothings. Make them soar to the top.