Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Harlow: Jules! You and your secret life! I want details.
Layla: I want dirty details.
Harlow: And I want to know how long you’ve been holding out on us, you bad girl.
Layla: Sounds like you’re going to be very bad tonight.
Harlow: The best kind of bad. Now, TALK. What are you wearing?
Layla: Um, my pet, the point is she won’t be wearing much of anything.
Harlow: I meant like right now.
Jules: I promise to share the dirtiest of details tomorrow night. That is, if I can walk.
I spend most of the quick ride texting with them. Each time we connect like this—like we did over poker, like we’re doing now—makes me hungrier for more friendship.
But when I reach Jane Street, I put my friends behind me. I thank the driver, get out, then stare up at the gorgeous brownstone.
Finn’s on the balcony on the third floor, watching me, a tumbler in his hand. He’s wearing a dress shirt and a tie, loosened. Playing the part. From down here, though, I can see the desire in his heated gaze.
I vow to put everything else out of my head for the rest of tonight.
10
WHAT HE REALLY WANTS
Jules
Before I knock on Finn’s door, I take a deep breath, needing a moment to ground myself. The June night air is warm. Music plays from a bar around the corner. There’s a faint scent of honeysuckle somewhere nearby.
And in front of me is…the wild unknown.
Am I ready to step into it?
Butterflies flap in my chest, but they’re saying yes too. I lift my hand and rap on the door. The white wood paneling gleams in the glow from the lights on this quiet street in the West Village. Footsteps approach from inside, and I swallow hard, my heart racing.
Seconds later, the man with the chiseled cheekbones and piercing eyes opens the door, but he’s not smiling. He’s staring fiercely at me, his jaw ticking. “You’re here at last. We have lots to accomplish, Miss Marley,” he growls, playing the hard-ass boss as he tugs me inside and kicks the door closed.
The man moves like a sex superhero, and in no time, I’m up against the door, wrists above my head, clasped in his hands.
My pulse gallops with excitement.
He dips his face to my neck, drawing a deep inhale. “I’m going to keep you very busy tonight,” he says, his voice low and velvety as he runs his nose along my skin.
My cheeks heat. “With what kind of work?” I ask, a little wobbly but eager—like a foal standing for the first time.
“It’s a special project. Something I’ve had in mind for you for the last two weeks.” His eyes roam over my work costume approvingly, then he takes my hand and guides me through the foyer, past his living room. His home is sparse but warm, with white walls and wooden furniture. He leads me into a spacious kitchen. It’s large by New York standards, but it’s neat, with hardly anything on the clean white counters except a mixer, a kettle, and a box of cheddar bunnies. The crackers seem incongruous, but I’m not here to think about cracker snacks now. I set my bag on a stool beside the island.
Finn lifts a scotch glass, knocks back some amber liquid, then beckons me to him with one languid finger. Heat pulses through me, and I step closer to the man with the silver in his beard and the after-dark secrets in his heart. He sets down his tumbler, then pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the counter. “Take a drink, Miss Marley. Or your throat will be parched when you scream my name and beg me to let you come.”
Did he really just say that?
Pretty sure my panties are useless now. He picks up the glass and hands it to me, his fingers brushing against mine. My body hums at his touch, craving more contact with him.
I take a thirsty sip, then put it down again.
“I couldn’t get anything done at the office today. Do you know why?” he says, his eyes narrowed and his tone stern, just the way I like.
“Why?” I ask, trembling.
“You’re all I think about, and it drives me insane,” he says, annoyed and aroused.
I touch my throat like I’m confirming the source of his madness. “I am?”
“You are. You make it impossible to concentrate on deals and contracts. Do you know what that means?” he asks, stalking closer so there’s only an inch between us.
My heart pounds mercilessly in my chest. “Tell me, Mr. Adams.”
I don’t know exactly what I expected when I came to his home, but this is the stuff of fiery fantasies. He crowds me against the counter and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His touch is anything but gentle; it’s rough, possessive, and thoroughly mesmerizing. “It means I need to punish you,” he says.