Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I force myself to stop imagining him in workout clothes and return to the game of verbal chess we’re playing.
He’s obviously trying to point out my lack of worldliness. I don’t care what a douche like him thinks–not all of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths. But I guess his point has been made–I can hardly reject Monte Carlo when I’ve never been there. I’ve never even been to Vegas, for that matter. Atlantic City is the farthest I’ve ever traveled.
“No.” I meet his gaze, refusing to let him fluster me. “So, I guess you’ll have to take the lead on all the arrangements.” I give him a mock-sorry look, then add brightly, “You already promised you’d foot the bill, right?”
It was the wrong tack to take. I forgot my aim was to force him to work with me on every tiny detail. He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “Done. Get me the number of people, and I’ll have Annabeth arrange everything.”
I bristle. “Oh no, Suit.” Because I’ve sucked down most of his drink and because he’s already laid hands on me, my normal inhibitions are gone. I poke him in the chest with my index finger. “We already talked about this. You don’t get to throw money at this thing to make it disappear. And I’m not your assistant who you give orders to. We’re working on this party together, remember?” I don’t toss in the reminder that this is his punishment because I suspect humiliating Billy White in front of Brick would be dangerous.
As it is, his eyes do that strange trick of glinting icy grey. He snatches my hand with the outstretched finger and pulls it to his mouth, biting my knuckle.
I shriek. He didn’t bite me hard; I’m just shocked.
As quickly as he snatches my hand, he lets it go. I pull it to my chest, wrapping the other one around it protectively as I stare up at him.
He looks back impassively. I can’t read his expression at all. Was that bite a challenge? Punishment? An assertion of dominance?
Whatever it was, it turned me on. My nipples scrape against the inside of my bra, and tingling ignites between my legs.
I sense Brick and Madi staring at us, but can’t seem to move or think of anything to say.
Billy’s inscrutable look changes to one of scorn, like “asshole” is a persona he’s donning. “I remember,” he says, like working with me is utterly distasteful.
I am one part offended, one part glorying in the punishment aspect of it–that I’m forcing him to be with me when he hates it. Except I’m uncertain he does hate it.
I think…unbelievably…that he might be attracted to me.
And that he probably hates that, too.
I give him my sweetest smile. “Great. So should we talk details?”
Billy takes the empty glass from my hand and replaces it with a crystal champagne flute filled with something bubbly–prosecco, Madi said. I’ve never had prosecco. It looks like champagne.
Like when he held my jacket and opened the door for me at La Résistance, I find his attentiveness at odds with the dickish personality. Also a bit disconcerting.
Like, I don’t want to enjoy being the object of his attention, but I do.
He sweeps a hand in the living room’s direction like a proper host. “Let’s talk.”
I trail behind Madi and Brick, maddeningly aware of Billy at my back. Brick sits in a large armchair and pulls Madi onto his lap.
That familiar wave of sadness hits me again–grief over my changed relationship with Madi. I was excited to come here tonight and see her sooner than next Thursday. But even though we’re in the same room now, she’s very much wrapped up with Brick.
For the four hundred and fiftieth time, I mentally kick myself for not being happy for her. For not getting over myself. For feeling so abandoned.
I drop onto the sofa beside them and suck down half of the bubbly drink Billy handed me. It’s nice–light and refreshing. I drain the glass and set it on the gleaming chrome coffee table.
Billy does not sit down yet. He seems to be considering the three of us. “Aubrey says it looks like a prison guard decorated my apartment.”
The alcohol must be going to my head because it takes me a second to note how odd it is that Billy would offer that up as a conversation starter.
Madi laughs. “Right?” She catches my eye, and I’m relieved at the familiar camaraderie. The reassurance that we still share similar beliefs and values despite the drastic changes in her financial and social status. That we still have common ground. “It’s completely devoid of color.” Madi glances at Billy. “You need art in this place. You should buy one of Aubrey’s paintings.”
“I’m not sure an Occupy Wall Street mural works with my vibe.”