Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, and I shudder, still trembling from the aftershocks.
The wave of release nearly topples me, and I press my forehead to the glass, panting, letting the aftershocks roll through me until the entire world narrows to the feel of water and heat and the echo of my own wild, shameless pulse.
Holy cinnamon rolls, did I need that.
After a good sixty seconds of recovery, I rinse off, savoring the heat and the tingle lingering in my fingertips. I towel off and wrangle my hair into a not-horrible wet bun. Then it’s time for my panic dressing.
I tear open my closet and stand there, dripping, half-naked, for longer than I’d ever admit under oath. “Dress to kill, not to confess to a felony,” I mutter, rifling through my options. Too casual, too businessy, too blah.
Finally, I settle on dark yoga pants that hug every inch of my hips and thighs, paired with a ridiculously soft pale blue sweatshirt that dips just enough in front to hint at cleavage without screaming, “HEY, LOOK AT THESE.” I step into my favorite turquoise flats, because a girl’s got to keep it real, and swipe on cherry lip balm and a hint of mascara for a “I totally woke up like this” look.
I snatch up the keycard and stare at it for a second, pulse thundering in my ears. I’m really going to do this.
It’s the longest elevator ride of my life. Ding. Top floor. My heart pounds in my chest as I walk down the quiet hallway to the penthouse. Each footstep on the expensive-looking carpet sounds loud as a drumbeat. I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt, palms sweating, and try to ignore the urge to turn around and run for it.
But then I reach the door. His door. I take a deep breath. Just enough air to keep my voice steady and knock.
It doesn’t take long. Maybe five seconds, tops, before I hear heavy footsteps on the other side. A lock turns. The door swings open, and there he is.
Oliver.
He looks… delicious. Even more put-together than usual, if possible. He’s changed into fitted black jeans and a dark olive sweater that hugs his chest and arms like a second skin. His blue eyes zero in on me right away, and the intense, hungry heat in them is enough to melt every last molecule of self-doubt. He doesn't even try to hide how he's checking me out. His gaze travels from my face down my body, lingering at every curve like he's memorizing it.
Then, slowly, his lopsided smirk that makes my knees turn to jelly appears. “Damn,” he rasps, voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You look… incredible.”
I might actually swoon.
My cheeks flush, but I force myself to keep my chin high and my bravado even higher. “I had to guess what to wear for pizza night.” I try for sassy, but my voice wobbles just a little.
His gaze locks on my mouth as he leans against the doorjamb like he’s contemplating several very illegal activities involving my lips. “You’re fucking perfect,” Oliver growls and steps back for me to follow him.
I laugh, nerves tumbling out of me in a single exhale.
The penthouse behind him glows with warm, golden light, nothing at all like the bachelor caves I’ve seen on TV. Instead of cold steel and glass, I catch glimpses of buttery tan sofas, textured throws, art on the walls, and books spilling out everywhere. A big, modern kitchen opens onto a living room that looks made for cozying up.
I blink, stunned. The place isn’t just luxurious. It’s… welcoming. Surprisingly personal. Kind of like the man himself.
“Make yourself at home,” he tells me, and I’m hyper-aware of every breath, every look, every tiny detail as the door swings shut behind me with a soft, decisive click.
And just like that, I’m in Oliver’s world.
The door swings shut behind me, and for one wild heartbeat, there’s nothing but the hush of warm lamplight, the soft sound of my flats hitting the floor, and the thump-thump-thump of my own pulse ricocheting around my ribcage.
“Wow,” I say, not even pretending to be cool. “This is not what I pictured at all. I thought I’d be walking into some sterile showroom straight out of a minimalist magazine, not, you know… this. I love it.”
He lets out a low, real laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m glad you approve.”
I nod, grinning. “You totally shattered my expectations. I’m officially impressed.”
Oliver’s about to reply, but then a chime slices through the moment. He picks up his phone and checks it, mouth curving into a rueful smile.
“Pizza’s here,” he says, leaning close enough that I catch a hint of his aftershave. “Give me two minutes to run down and grab it.”