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)
"So what do you do, Vivian? Besides, dodge nightmare workmates."
"Executive assistant. Glorified babysitter, really, but don't tell my boss I said that." She pulls her hand back and reaches for her drink. "You?"
"I run things. Fix problems. Occasionally drink overpriced bourbon in hotel bars."
"Vague. I like that in a man." She's teasing me, and somehow that makes everything worse. Or better. I can't tell the difference anymore. I'm hard as a crowbar, and it seems all my blood has rushed south, leaving my head with nothing.
"What can I say? I'm mysterious."
"Mysterious." She repeats the word like she's testing how it tastes. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
"Evasive. Possibly hiding something. Definitely trying too hard to seem interesting."
The laugh that comes out of me is completely involuntary. When was the last time someone called me on my shit this directly? When was the last time I let them? "Harsh but probably accurate."
"I have a talent for cutting through bullshit. Occupational hazard of working with executives all day. All these people who say one thing and expect you to magically know what they're talking about. I worked for a guy once who said he didn’t want his lunch 'looking back at him.' He just wanted the salad instead of the shrimp. "
"Jesus. Must be exhausting," I say.
"You have no idea. Half of them think they're God's gift to business or guarding heaven's gates, and the other half actually believe their own press releases." She takes another sip, and I watch the way her throat moves when she swallows, ignoring the urge to drag my tongue along the smooth skin. "Present company excluded, obviously. You seem relatively down to earth for someone who 'runs things.'"
"Relatively down to earth. High praise. I will have that written on my tombstone."
"Don't let it go to your head."
She's closer now. I don't know when that happened, but her elbow is resting on the bar and her body is angled toward mine. If I shifted six inches to the left, I could press my mouth to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, maybe suck the skin and leave marks. Or maybe I could trail kisses along her jaw.
Fuck.
My eyes linger on the pulse of her throat up to the column and finally her full lips. Thoughts of her naked and writhing buzz in my skull. I want nothing more than to imprint her taste on my brain.
"You're staring again," she says quietly.
"Sorry."
"I didn't say I minded."
The air between us thickens, the words loaded with about fifty different meanings. Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—so quick I might have imagined it—before meeting mine again.
The floor under my feet is gone, and I'm sliding through it, with nothing to break my fall. A magnetic current keeps slithering and swirling through my system.
"Vivian." My voice drops an octave.
"Yeah?"
I should ask her about the weather. About her job. About anything that doesn't involve getting her out of that dress or burying my cock in her depths. Instead, I lean forward until there's maybe three inches between us. So fucking close her scent envelops me.
"My room's upstairs. I can take your mind off work."
Vivian doesn't answer immediately, but I can practically see the gears turning in her head. She chews on her bottom lip, and without thinking, I tug it free before running my thumb along its pillowy softness.
She sucks in a sharp breath as I drop my hand on her thigh.
"This is not something I do," she whispers.
"What's that?"
"Go to hotel rooms with strange men I just met. I don't even know if you have a wife."
I lift both hands to show her no ring. "No, I don't. Not even a girlfriend."
"Doesn't make you less of a strange man." Her eyes suddenly widen with intent. "Probably even qualifies you as a strange man."
"True, but I don't like pineapples on pizza."
"Points in your favor."
"And if you so much as touch the duvet with your heels, I'm calling the cops."
"Oh, well, in that case." Vivian slides off her barstool and holds my gaze. "Lead the way."
The elevator ride is silent except for the soft hum of machinery and the sound of our breathing. She stands close enough that I can count the smattering of freckles across her nose. But when she turns to face me, a full foot shorter than me even in heels, I realize I'm done for.
I skim her bare arm with my knuckle, and Vivian responds by brushing the back of her hand against my erection.
My nostrils flare as I grit my teeth, knowing full well my self-control is hanging by a thread. So is my sanity.
When the doors open on the fourteenth floor, I have to concentrate on walking in a straight line and remembering which room is mine.
My key card beeps against the reader, and my room door opens at the slightest touch. She stops just past the threshold, looking around at the generic corporate luxury—king bed, leather chair, small fridge, and massive windows overlooking the city lights.