Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 78915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Every single box is almost the same. A living room area in the back with a bar right against the edge where you walk down and have ten seats. Looking around the box, I see the logo of her firm on the walls and pictures of her with the clients that she has.
The television on the wall has the view from the ice. The bathroom door opens, and when she steps out and I see her without the jacket, my first thought is the dress needs to be burned and never worn again. It’s showing you her whole body, but it keeps you guessing. Or at least it keeps me guessing. I wonder what bra she is wearing under the outfit. “Oh, hey,” she says when she sees me walking over to the bar and taking a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. “Sorry about just walking away, but that fucking man gets under my skin.”
“Well, if you’re keeping score. It’s Becca one, Christopher zero,” I say, looking around. “Where is everybody?”
“I don’t know who this everybody is you’re referring to?” She takes her glass of wine and takes a sip.
“The box is empty,” I say, looking around. “You get twenty-five tickets with each box.”
“Yeah and?” she says, walking toward me. “We give out Saturday games mostly. The week is just mostly us, depending.”
“Depending on?” I ask, and she sets the wine down on the table.
“Depending on if any of my other clients are coming into town. I usually meet with them for lunch or dinner the day before if time permits it.”
“Who do you root for?” I ask. Reaching out my hands, I hold her hips and pull her a bit closer to me. I can smell her citrus perfume. It smells like fresh lemons and sunshine.
“That depends,” she says, her own hands holding the lapels of my blue jacket. “I usually just root for whoever wins.” She steps closer, and even with her heels, she still has to tilt her head back in order to look up at me.
“Wrong answer, Becca,” I say softly, and she chuckles.
“Why is that?” she asks. “For me, I win either way.”
“I hate to lose,” I say, and I’m not talking about hockey anymore. I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s making me go crazy, and she has no fucking clue either.
“No one likes to lose, Nico,” she says. All I can think about is her saying my name over and over again while I bury myself inside her.
“You’ve gotten under my skin, Becca,” I say.
“I thought nothing gets under your skin.” She smirks and moves in closer, placing her palms flat on my chest.
“I thought so, too, and then …” I bend my head down ever so slowly. “Then there was you,” I say as my lips get closer to her. “You know what I thought when I saw you today?” I murmur. “I thought that your lips were made for me to fucking kiss.”
“Nico,” she says with a sigh, and it’s the last thing she says before my lips are on hers. Her mouth opens for mine, and when my tongue slips into her mouth, I swear the world stops. Her tongue slides against mine, and my hands move up to her face. Our heads move from one side to the other, both of us fighting against the other. Her hands finally move from my chest upward as her chest presses against mine. She wraps her arms around my neck, and we both moan.
The sound of talking gets closer, causing us to move away from each other. “No chance in hell.” We both hear Francis from the hallway.
We don’t have a chance to say anything else before the door opens, and he comes in, followed by the four girls hanging around him downstairs. “Hey, you two.”
I nod at him and put my hands in my pockets to hide the fact my cock is hard as a rock. I look at her, and if my cock wasn’t hard before, it definitely would have gotten hard looking back at her. Her eyes are an emerald color, and the tint of pink trails down to her chest. But it’s her lips that make me get even harder. They are plumper than before and are still painted the brightest red.
Chapter 11
Becca
“Becca.” Hearing my name, I look up from my phone toward Matthew Grant.
I smile at him, getting up from my chair. “Mr. Grant,” I say, holding out my hand, and he just shakes his head.
“Enough with the Mr. Grant bullshit,” he says. “It’s Matthew.” I laugh at him. “Follow me,” he says, and I take my cashmere jacket and my wine-colored Louis Vuitton bag that matches my shoes and sweater. “Is it cold enough for you?” he asks, seeing me put my jacket over my arm.