Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
My eyes narrow and I ask, “Am I bad, Bella?”
“It depends on how you define bad,” she replies.
“How do you define bad?”
“Privately,” she replies shortly. “And based on my previous reprimand, I’ll keep that to myself, but I’ve been keeping way too much to myself now.”
“Ah,” I reply. “Now it seems we’re going to get to the real reason you found me in the crowd.”
Her spine stiffens slightly, and her eyes meet mine. “I need to talk business with you tomorrow and I don’t like that I should have done so three days ago and did not. I hesitated.”
I arch a brow. “Why, exactly, did you hesitate?”
“Perhaps expectations got the best of me,” she replies in a statement colored with hidden meaning. “But now my own desire for perfection wins. We need to talk this out.”
In other words, she was forced to tear down the wall between us despite every effort to leave it firmly in place. “If the topic you wish to speak to me about is three days old, talk now.”
“It’s a long debate on some of the final film negotiations for Dash’s Hollywood contract. A topic worthy of time and privacy, and while I doubt either of us appreciates those things right now, both are necessary.”
“I have always opened my door for you when you needed me.”
“Just not when you need me, right?” she challenges softly, and the heat of her cheeks tells me the words have slipped out. “Forget I said that.”
My eyes narrow on her and I say, “Me wanting the time and privacy with you was never the question, Bella. I told you—”
“I remember exactly what you told me quite vividly.” Her tone is unquestionably tart.
Which tells me that she’s thinking about me suggesting her legs would end up around my neck. “Bella—”
She cuts me off, “I’ll buzz your secretary when I get in tomorrow and get on your schedule.” She starts to turn.
That intolerance she credited me for is alive and well, as I say, “Bella,” my tone crisp and authoritative. It’s a command that she not walk away from me.
She halts and hesitates a beat before she complies with my wishes and turns to face me. I close the two steps she’s placed between us and say, “I made you leave because—”
“You’re a bastard?” she challenges.
“I am a bastard, Bella. You wanted to be my friend. I wanted your legs around my neck. I wanted my mouth all over your body. I wanted my tongue in the most intimate part of your body. Don’t push me, or that’s where we’ll end up and that’s not good for either of us.” I catch her elbow with my hand and the charge I expect darts between us, a message in and of itself. My hand falls from her arm, and I say, “Don’t walk away. Run away. Understand?”
Her eyes lower and then lift. “Yes, sir,” she replies softly, but she doesn’t cut her stare, nor does she ever call me sir. It’s almost as if she’s intentionally showing me a submissive side meant to tempt me into testing her. If she was anyone else, I’d think it was an invitation.
But Bella would never bow down, not even in play. This is no invitation. It’s punishment.
And while my sins might come in many different forms in her mind, in my mind, it’s pushing her away, instead of fucking her.
Chapter Eight
Bella
I can feel Tyler’s eyes on me and if that wasn’t enough to undo me, the impact of his touch—that small touch on my elbow—lingers, and in places he didn’t touch. Or lick. I just cannot believe he said what he said or how affected by his words and the man, in general, I truly am, at least in a public place. My breasts are heavy, my nipples tight. My thighs are slick.
I’ve known this man for years.
How did we get here now?
But somehow, I continue to work the room, interacting with clients until it’s reasonable for me to claim a breather. I step outside, onto a quiet portion of the outdoor area framing the lounge area. My hands catch the edge of the wall and I draw in a breath, the cool air offering sweet relief to my warm skin. Seconds tick by and the burn in my belly begins to ease, allowing my mind the opportunity to hunt for reason in feelings.
When I was sixteen, my father’s star status as a NASCAR driver was ever so present in my life and so was the social side of that scene. At that time, I knew all about boys, boys, and more boys, and yes, men. There was a man, a driver on my father’s team, who made my stomach flutter and my knees weak. That same driver is now a competitor with his own car, who has hit on me too many times to count and he’s gotten nowhere. Because he only wants me to hurt my father.