Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Only in making him suffer.
I toss my tight curls and lift my chin as I march out of the elevator and look for number forty-four.
The door is slightly ajar, like he left it open for me, and that does something to my belly. Makes it drop out at the familiarity of it. Like I’m Billy’s girlfriend coming home to him after a long workday.
Or, in Billy’s case, the scenario would more likely be a call girl showing up to service him.
And that idea causes a squeezing of the flesh between my legs. A lifting and holding. Heating.
I shake off any sick attraction I have to this guy. It’s probably just the “other” thing. He’s different from my usual type. That makes me morbidly curious, that’s all.
I throw the door open without knocking. He left it unlatched, after all.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out. It’s not that funny, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
Billy stands behind a long gorgeous marble-topped kitchen island, pouring a gin and tonic. The look of utter horror he sends me makes my not-funny jab worth it.
I slam the door behind me to add to his annoyance and love that he visibly tenses. I’m pretty sure I can see the muscles around his jaw tightening in real time.
He’s probably grinding those white molars down just having me in his place.
I look around. The apartment is different from Brick and Madi’s exposed brick industrial look. This one is all plastered walls and windows, but the entire palette is gray.
Dull gray.
Billy comes around from behind the counter holding his drink as I shrug out of my acid-washed crop jean jacket. It’s my favorite 80’s throw-back, with rows of rainbow jewels stitched onto the pockets and around the cuffs. I toss it on the gunmetal grey leather couch at the same time he reaches to take it.
“Who decorated your apartment, a prison guard?”
His upper lip lifts in a snarl. “What do you mean?” He picks my jacket up from the couch like it’s a dust rag that got left out by the maid.
“I mean, why is everything grey? Are you depressed? Maybe you should see someone about that.”
Billy carries my jacket to the front hall closet and hangs it up without responding, so I persist.
“Have you ever heard of color? Art?”
“Lori Ann Beiber decorated the place.”
I look at him blankly. “Should I know her? Is she an ex-girlfriend? She has terrible taste.”
“She owns the top interior design firm in Manhattan.” His voice is dry and condescending, as if to imply that I know nothing about art or culture.
I send him a mock-sympathetic look. “A little therapy goes a long way.”
His jaw muscles flex again.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” Because my intention is to annoy the hell out of this guy–working with me on this wedding is his punishment after all–I take his drink from his hand.
His gray eyes flash, almost looking ice blue for a moment. His gaze follows as I bring the glass to my lips and take a deep swig.
“Mmm.” I’m surprised by how smooth the drink is. I suppose I’m not used to top shelf alcohol. How much do you have to pay for gin that coats your throat with cool warmth like that? “That’s good.”
“Keep it.” His voice is rough, his gaze still pinned on my lips.
Something about his gaze makes my skin tingle, but I can’t quite say why. Danger? Attraction? It’s unclear.
I look around again to dissipate the electric moment. “Where are Madi and Brick?”
Billy walks back to the kitchen. “Probably fucking,” he says with disgust.
I can’t quite laugh, but I let out a huff of agreement. Considering how much sex my former roomie gets these days, I’m sure he’s right.
He pours himself another drink, and I follow him around behind the island to make myself a pest, loving when he looks askance. I take it a step further, boosting myself up to sit on his counter beside the cutting board with limes.
The marble slab that comprises the island is even more magnificent up close. It’s grey–like everything else, but veined with white, silver, and purple and rather than being slabs put together with seams, it seems to be one long, gorgeous piece. I trace a purple vein with my finger.
He turns from the ice machine where he was filling a fresh glass and takes in my new position. His eyes turn icy blue-grey. He strolls toward me. “You sit on my kitchen counter, I’m going to assume you’re offering yourself to eat.” His tone is so dry I take a half-second to register the overt sexual nature of his words.
Oh. Damn.
Heat pools between my legs at the suggestion.
I hadn’t pegged him as the kind of guy who eats a lot of pussy. I figured he hired sex workers and forced them all to sign NDAs. It’s hard to imagine the cold, reserved asshole giving anything back to anyone–even a lover.