Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
When I wake, it’s 3:17 AM. My sheets are twisted and damp, my body shaking with the aftershocks. I gasp for air, hands already between my legs, slick with sweat and arousal. My cunt is throbbing, desperate. I rub fast and hard, hips bucking up into my palm, the pressure building to a scream.
“Unnh!” I gasp. “James! Brent! Ohhhhhh!”
I come so fast and so violently I bite through the inside of my cheek. The pain just makes it sweeter. I arch off the bed, knees locked, jaw clenched as my holes clamp violently, desperate to be filled. For a minute, there’s nothing but the white noise of release, the pleasure so intense it almost hurts.
After, I curl up around the pillow and breathe slow, waiting for my heart to remember what it’s supposed to do. My thighs are sticky, my lips bitten red, my whole self buzzing and electric. I close my eyes, but the dream won’t leave. The two men hover behind my eyelids, their huge forms a deliciously dirty promise to make me truly feel.
I don’t sleep again that night. Not really, because I need James and Brent. And now, I know what I need to do.
Dawn splits my apartment into zones of pale gold and shadow. I stand at the foot of my bed, nude and lush, letting the light trace my ivory curves. The ache in my muscles is real, even if the hands that left it were not. I flex my fingers, ball them into fists, and open them again. I want to feel powerful. I want to feel new, and yet used at once. I need to be with these men in order to live my fantasies to the fullest.
I choose my armor with care: a blouse of pale silk that’s almost transparent in the sun, a charcoal pencil skirt that emphasizes the sway of my wide hips, and heels that add three inches to my height and sharpen every stride. My reflection in the bathroom mirror is half-finished—makeup on one eye, lipstick only sketched in—but the mouth is set, the eyes bright and glittery.
I practice what I’ll say to them. “I’m in. I want the files.” No, that’s too eager. “I accept. But it’s on my terms.” Too hostile. I try a dozen lines, but none of them sound like me until I finally look at myself and whisper, “I want to know the truth.” That lands, real and final.
The city outside my window is still blue with dawn when I leave, the air cold enough to sting the back of my throat. I walk the blocks to the firm on autopilot, dodging puddles, ignoring the sidewalk philosophers and the dogs straining at leashes. The lobby is empty except for the cleaning crew and the single, silent security guy behind the glass. My heels echo on the marble, each step a countdown to the moment I stop being afraid.
Upstairs, I stride past Ms. Jenkins’s desk—she’s already working, tapping at her tablet, face frozen into its usual rictus. I stop, just to savor the surprise when I say, “I need a private meeting. With both partners. Now.”
She blinks once, and it’s the most human thing I’ve seen her do.
“I’m not sure if Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant are here yet,” she minces. “It’s early still.”
I stare at her, blue eyes pointed.
“I saw their cars in the lot. Now.”
For once, the office manager gets the message.
“I’ll arrange it,” Jenkins says in a clipped tone. “Wait by the main conference room.”
The glass corridor is quiet, the sun not yet strong enough to light the city through the windows. I smooth my skirt, adjust my hair, and take a breath so deep it fills every part of me. Am I insane? I’m just a lowly paralegal and yet I’m ready to take on two powerful, dominant alpha males. I must be losing my mind.
For a second, I see myself in the reflection: standing straight, chin up, nothing left of the scared girl in the restroom stall. Just a woman who knows what she wants.
You can do it, Marnie, the voice in my head whispers. You have nothing to lose.
Nothing to lose except my sanity, that is. I stand at the door, heels planted, and wait for my name.
The conference room is all polished surfaces and after-dark quiet. I close the door behind me, flip the blinds until the city disappears, and for a moment, the only light is the blue buzz of the table’s LED runner. Brent sits at the head, hands steepled, face carved from shadow. James leans against the credenza, arms folded, suit jacket undone, the blue of his eyes barely visible through the dim. Both men are massive, and I suck in a deep breath, remembering the feel of those two, powerful male bodies.
But they don’t stand to greet me. They just watch as I cross the carpet and grip the back of a chair. My palms are damp, but my voice is clear.