Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
It's not the answer I expected, but it's the one that makes most sense. Because this Matthew and the one at the bar are the real versions of him. "That's a lot of weight."
He shrugs. "Somebody has to carry it."
"For what it's worth," I say slowly, "you're not the worst boss I've had."
"High praise."
"I once worked for a woman who carried a stress ball everywhere, and whenever she got stressed, she’d throw it … at anything."
"At people?"
"At people. Makes you wonder if she misunderstood what a stress ball is actually for. I learned to duck before I learned her middle name. She also didn't use our actual names—just descriptions. I was 'the brunette who's always late.'"
"Were you always late?"
"Once. I was late because my neighbor, Alice, couldn't find her cat, and she was crying. I spent an hour looking for it, only to realize it was lounging on my couch."
Matthew laughs but almost instantly quiets. "Dance with me."
The sudden change in topic almost gives me whiplash."What?"
He nods toward the small section of the restaurant where a couple is swaying to soft jazz piped through invisible speakers. "Dance with me."
"That's not really dancing. That's just swaying. Stylishly, but still just swaying."
"Then sway in style with me."
On the dance floor, we move … barely, just shifting weight from foot to foot in a way that probably looks ridiculous from the outside. See, I have many talents, but dancing is definitely not one of them.
"You're tense," he whispers against my ear.
"I'm always tense. It's part of my charm."
His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine, and the casual intimacy of it sends heat pooling low in my stomach. My pulse starts pounding between my thighs, insistent and impossible to ignore, and I shift slightly—just enough to press closer.
Matthew notices, and his hand tightens on my back, his body going rigid for half a second before he pulls me flush against him.
I lift my gaze towards his face. What I see in his eyes makes my knees tremble and go weak with want.
"I-I need to use the restroom."
I don't wait for his permission. I just slip out of his arms and head toward the back of the restaurant, past the bar and through a hallway lined with black-and-white photographs of people I don't recognize.
The bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures, and normally, I'd take my time admiring it. But not now. Not when my heart feels like it's about to escape its cage.
I'm still staring at my flushed face in the mirror, trying to get my pulse under control, when the door opens.
Matthew steps inside and locks it behind him.
"This is the women's room," I say stupidly.
"I'm aware."
He crosses the space between us in two strides and kisses me.
The kiss hits like a fuse igniting. His mouth is hot, demanding, claiming mine with a hunger that sends sparks of pleasure skittering down my legs. My arms wrap around his neck as I pull him closer, needing to feel every rigid inch of him against me.
Matthew backs me up until the cold marble wall slams into my spine, the shock of icy stone against my overheated skin ripping a sharp gasp from my throat that he devours.
The contrast is dizzying—a chilled wall at my back, his scorching body molding to my front, the hard length of his cock already pressing insistently against my stomach through our clothes. My thighs clench together on instinct, but it only makes the ache worse, that deep, throbbing need that's been building since the moment he pulled me onto the dance floor.
God, this is reckless.
His hand drags up my thigh as he shoves my dress higher, and his fingers brush the soaked edge of my lace panties. My own arousal coats his fingertips as he teases along my folds, circling my taut bud.
The thought of stopping now feels physically painful, like my body would revolt if he pulled away.
Matthew's fingers hook into the crotch of my panties and yank them roughly aside, exposing me completely. Two thick fingers slide through my folds, parting me, then push inside without warning. He curls them up and presses firmly. Just presses. I’m hooked. My pelvis starts to gyrate, easing down harder against his two fingers. A low moan parts my lips and I take a second to clear my head.
I reach between us with shaking hands, fumbling his belt open. His pants drop just enough for me to free his cock.
He's rock-hard, velvet-smooth skin stretched tight over throbbing heat, the thick vein pulsing against my palm as I stroke him root to tip. Precum beads at the slit, smearing hot and sticky over my fingers.
"Vivian…"
"Now," I whisper, voice cracking with pure, frantic need. "Fuck me right now. I need your cock filling me up. Please, Matthew."
He doesn't make me beg twice. Those large hands grip my thighs, lifting me effortlessly until my back scrapes the wall and my legs lock tight around his waist. The blunt, fat head of his cock nudges my entrance, teasing through my slickness before he thrusts up into me in one long, inexorable stroke.