Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
A feat in and of itself, I can tell you.
My breath hitches. “The problem is that we can’t stay married, obviously.”
That infuriating eyebrow remains arched, as if he disagrees. Yet all he says is, “You want to get this annulled.”
“I want my life go to back to normal.”
“Normal and lacking in mind-blowing orgasms that make you scream my name so loud we get noise complaints from neighboring rooms?” He’s grinning again, and goddamn it, I hate the way he can get to me so easily. We’ve only known each other for a day. It’s not fair that he already knows exactly which buttons to push.
He takes a step toward me, then another. I’m painfully, heatedly aware that I’m still only wearing a towel. My face feels so hot I’m surprised he can’t feel the heat radiating off me—and that’s nothing compared to the rest of me. My pussy pulses between my thighs, my clit feels swollen with desire. Even if there are parts of last night that I don’t recall, I have a feeling my body remembers every single second.
And it wants more.
“What’s the hurry, Mara?” John murmurs, and that voice is like silk between my thighs, caressing all the right spots. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Just take off that towel, come back to bed…”
I set my jaw hard, not sure whether I’m angrier with myself or him right now. “Stop it. I need to think, and I can’t with you distracting me. Get out!”
His smirk widens. “You realize you’re in my room, right?”
With a groan, I grab for my clothes, strewn across the floor in a way that sends a flash of memories rushing through my mind. My shirt flying in one direction. My panties very carefully being peeled off in another…
“Breakfast,” he says, and for a second, I pause in the middle of collecting my things, positive he’s about to hit on me again. But he’s smiling, looking actually innocent for once. “I know a great little spot on the corner. Marcelle’s. They have a great fire-roasted tomato omelet, good coffee. Let’s meet there in an hour, okay? And then we can talk about all of this.”
“No, that’s not okay,” I snap. “Can’t we just annul this remotely or something? I have things to do.” A job to start tomorrow. The very thought of it almost starts a fresh wave of panic in my body, but I push it away, repress it for now. First things first: get out of this guy’s room.
This guy with the alluring eyes and the devilish smile, who’s currently looking at me like he wants to devour me whole. This guy who blew my mind last night—and also makes me want to punch him this morning.
This guy who already knows something about annulments, to judge by his reaction every time I bring it up. It makes me wonder whether this is the first time he’s done something wild like this, running off and getting married to a stranger. For some insane reason, it makes me jealous to think about him with another woman, doing the things we did. Even though I know that’s crazy. I have no claim on him, and he has no claim on me. I don’t even want to be married to him. So why should it bug me that I’m probably not his first wife?
I shake my head as I head for the door. Wife. I’m nobody’s wife. That’s crazy talk.
“Is that a yes?” John calls after me, and I wave a hand back at him.
“No, it is not,” I snap over my shoulder.
“You know, I don’t remember you being this stubborn last night when you were begging for my cock,” he calls, loud enough that it makes me tense, wondering if anyone can hear—how thin are these walls if we got noise complaints last night?
Or how loud was I being, exactly? The latter seems more likely, and it makes me blush and makes me hot all over again to think about.
Maybe Lea is right. Maybe I should let loose a little more often.
But no. What am I saying? Look at how this turned out. With a ring on my finger and a wedding contract I need to wriggle out of.
It doesn’t help that my headache and the fog of my hangover have redoubled, making every step I take feel like a mountain to my tired limbs. “Fuck off,” I mumble over my shoulder, which just makes John laugh, the bastard. Then I manage to reach the elevator—the elevator that just opens straight up into his suite, damn, how rich is this guy? —and hit the button for my floor. I refuse to turn around, even when he calls after me.
“I’ll wait for you, darling,” he yells, teasing, I think. Probably.
My back tenses. “Don’t make me get a restraining order on you.”