Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
“That’s fine,” I say, stripping out of my clothes.
Since the sight of her naked body has my cock hard, it springs out, bobbing and hitting my torso.
“Kane, what are you doing?” she accuses.
“Showering.” I step into the shower behind her.
It’s a large area that could easily fit several people, but I still purposely brush my front against her back, earning a hiss from her.
“Since we’re sharing a bathroom and I need to get ready for brunch, I don’t see any reason why we can’t share a shower.”
She turns and glares my way, her arms crossing over her chest to hide her pert nipples, only making her perfect tits even more enticing. The water is still dripping down her body, thanks to the ceiling showerheads, and my eyes can’t help but follow the drops as they slide down her toned belly and neatly trimmed pussy, disappearing between the apex of her thighs.
They clench in want, and I chuckle at how turned on she is.
“Sure,” she murmurs sarcastically. “Feel free to impose on my personal space. It is your home after all.”
The woman has made it her mission to hate me, but no matter what she does, what she says, her actions speak for themselves, and they’re making it clear just how attracted she is to me.
“It’s now our home,” I correct her. “And I’ll be quick.”
“This place will never be my home,” she mutters.
I go out of my way to ignore her the rest of the time we’re in the shower, soaping up my body and washing my hair. I make a show of washing my dick and balls, and the entire time, I can feel her eyes on me even though she pretends like she’s not watching me.
I finish before her and slide past her, once again rubbing my body against hers. She sucks in a harsh breath, and I smile to myself.
My future wife might like to play games, but she has no idea just how competitive I am. Challenge accepted.
All the clothes the woman owns, and she’s wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a tank top that reads Save a horse, Ride a cowboy, paired with brown cowboy boots. I haven’t the slightest clue why she owns an outfit like this, but regardless of her name, the country club won’t let her in. Which is precisely why she did this.
Another fucking game.
She’s standing in the foyer, waiting for my response—I either tell her to change, to which she’ll refuse, or leave without her, and she’ll get out of this business meeting.
But she’s not going to get either from me.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, plastering a smile on my face.
It’s not a lie. She could wear a brown paper bag, and she’d look beautiful.
“Is there a particular cowboy I should be worried about?”
I arch a brow playfully, and she furrows hers, confused as to why I’m not reacting the way she expected.
“Just remember what I threatened after the bar incident.”
I smirk and grab my keys out of the bowl, then head out to the garage. On the way, I text Malcolm Johnson that there’s been a change of plans. He and I go way back. We both attended the University of Miami and were roommates for the last two years of college.
Kane
My future wife is playing games. Country club is out. Let’s go to The Terrace.
Malcolm and I co-own The Terrace, so while it does have a dress code, we won’t be kicked out for her not adhering to it.
“Umm, where are we going?” Brielle asks when I head south instead of west toward the country club.
“To brunch with a business associate of mine. His name is Malcolm Johnson and his wife—”
“Malcolm Johnson, the NFL player?” She gasps.
“Yep, we went to U of M together, and his wife is a good friend of mine as well.”
Brielle peers down at her outfit and cringes, and I almost consider turning around so she can change, but she made her bed, and now she’s gonna lie in it.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at The Terrace, and Malcolm and his wife, Genevieve, are standing by the valet, waiting for us.
Brielle takes one look at how elegant Genevieve looks and glances at me. I quirk a brow, waiting for her to admit she fucked up, but instead, she inhales deeply, shakes her head, and steps out of the car.
Malcolm immediately notices Brielle’s outfit and contains his smirk, but Genevieve can’t hide her confusion.
“Mal, Viv,” I say, giving each of them a hug. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Brielle Antonova. Brielle, these are my friends, Malcolm and Genevieve Johnson.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Brielle says sheepishly. “I did a project in college on MK Holdings. A billionaire by the age of twenty-two.”
She shakes her head in awe, and it takes everything in me not to snort out a laugh. Because my wife is fangirling over my best friend—not because he used to play professional football, but because of his business decisions. Could she be any more fucking perfect?