Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
I could lie, but fuck it. It won’t get me anywhere fast.
“Because it was.”
I rehearse five different versions of don’t sound like a jealous fuckhead, but they all evaporate the instant Azra’s eyes lower to mine. Her smile… fuck. It’s as priceless as the moans she releases while sucking dick.
“I was being a bit of a pissy prick.”
“A bit?” she teases.
I shoot her a half glare, half surrender. “Fine. I was a full-blown moody prick.” I return to tugging on the dress. “But I don’t see me ever wanting to discuss plans about another man when my head is about to be buried between a pair of thighs.” With one truth comes another. “If your thoughts are on another dude, I clearly have no right to sample the goods.”
Azra studies me for a long moment, confusion crinkling between her dark brows before the truth smacks into her. “My comment about the purity test.”
She isn’t asking a question, but I nod anyway.
She cusses softly under her breath before she remembers who is currently on their knees, acting like a pussy. “In all honesty, would it have mattered whose name I said?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You don’t even need to be from this side of the world to know Matteo Caruso is allergic to commitment. Even if I had replaced Anto… his name with yours, you would have still left me hanging.”
“Is that so?” I murmur, too fucking enamored by her sass not to respond.
Her glare is one hundred percent authentic. “You know it.”
I smirk because when a man finds himself caught with his pants down, he always chooses humor.
Needing the attention off the dangerous thoughts in my head—like perhaps I wouldn’t run from her—I shift the focus back to her plan. “What’s the go with the purity clause? I get some men like to pop the cherry of their future wife, but what happened to testing the goods before purchasing it?” I align our eyes. “What if Antonio is a dud, and you have no fucking clue until it’s too late?”
Azra contemplates her reply for barely three seconds. “I didn’t really consider the reason for it. I was just happy it was in place.”
Her dislike of her husband-to-be can’t be mistaken, and it prompts me to ask, “Not a fan of wurstelinis?”
When she remains quiet, either as shocked by my snarky comment as I am or confused, I explain, “Wurstelinis are little red sausages. About ya girth”—I hold out my pinkie finger—“but about half the length. It’s not a micro-dick, but pretty fucking close.”
“You’re so crude.” Her face screws up in disgust, but her smile is on the other end of the spectrum. I can see her mentally undressing Antonio now and seeing nothing but a teeny-tiny wiener between his thighs.
I like that—a lot.
“Crude and a fucking genius,” I reply when the dress finally slips free enough that Azra can wriggle out of it.
She stumbles forward, catching herself on my shoulders. Her hair is mussed, and embarrassment and another emotion she’s trying to ignore flush her cheeks.
Striving to keep this train on the tracks, she glares at the dress. “I never want to see that thing again.”
“Noted.”
After prolonged eye contact, she straightens up and then brushes her hair back. “Next time, pick something that actually fits.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She throws me a look that could strip paint without thinners.
For the first time today, she’s not pretending. She’s just Azra... the woman gradually convincing me that verbal sparring is the best kind of foreplay.
Chapter 12
Azra
The dressing room mirror reflects a face I don’t recognize. I quickly hide my flushed cheeks and dilated eyes by pulling my all-in-one pantsuit up my thighs, but no number of silent prayers can mask the scent of my arousal slicking my underwear.
I should have known any outfit Matteo insisted would “make an impression” would be body-hugging. Dress ten was so stuck that there was no way it was leaving this dressing room in one piece—and I’m only one step behind it.
With Matteo, it’s impossible to distinguish where the performance ends and the truth begins. I’m as confused by his actions as I am horny.
Matteo props his shoulder against the solid wall of the dressing room, crosses his arms, and speaks in a warm, amused voice. “Are you positive you don’t want to hunt for a handful more outfits? Four dresses are barely a day’s worth of clothes for some women.”
Despite my back being turned to him, I roll my eyes. “I’m sure.”
“You hesitated.”
“I did not,” I immediately snap back, hating how easily he reads me.
“You did.” He sounds way too pleased with himself. “It’s fine. Happens to everyone when they’re shocked I can be as helpful as I am sexy.”
After gathering the clothes he picked, I move toward the curtain. “I’m done. No more stuffy dressing rooms for me for at least the next century.”