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)
My imagination starts churning out all the ways I could tempt Billy White.
That’s right, Big Bad Bully.
I’m going to make you sorry you hurt my bestie. Sorry for every uppity judgment you’ve made about young women from working-class families in Jersey.
I’m going to flip your world around and serve it to you backwards, and in the end, we’ll see who is bullying whom.
Billy
I unlatch the door when Grayson, one of our pack security guys, tells me Aubrey’s on her way up. Then I return to my glass breakfast table by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park reading the Times. She can see herself in. She’s not a guest in my home. She’s here to work.
But I’m sniffing the air in anticipation of her nutmeg and honey scent. Sweetness and spice from the coffee shop where she works. I never thought it would become one of my favorite scents. After my showdown with my father, I’ve been looking forward to seeing her.
My father would fucking hate her. She’s a human and proud of it.
Good. Going against my father’s wishes is a win these days. And it’ll prove to Madi I’m not controlled by prejudice. I might even gain some leverage over Madi by getting closer to her best friend. And I get to play Aubrey’s boss. So many birds killed with one stone.
She struts into my place in a swirl of colorful chaos. She’s mayhem to my order. Pattern and color to my straight lines and monochromatic palette.
I would swear a warm breeze follows her in–the kind that promises pleasant weather after the nip and chill of winter.
My lip curls as I give her a cool glance from over my newspaper and take in her outfit. “You look like…” I break off.
It’s in the high sixties today–a warm spring day but not hot by any means. Why in the fuck is she wearing those short jean shorts?
And her midriff is bare. Fate, does she have a pierced navel? A silver ring. Sexy as hell but would burn the fuck out of me if I railed her from the front. She’d better not have a clit piercing, too.
“What?” There’s a challenge in her posture and her gaze. She didn’t come here as some eager-to-please contractor.
She’s here to fuck with me.
This mural idea is probably my most ill-conceived idea yet.
I need to take control back in this conversation. I give her a grim, assessing look, noting the sketchpad tucked under her arm.
“Did you bring your concepts?”
“I look like what?” She strides over her in clompy boots and stops in front of me, cocking a sassy hip.
I want to bend her over the table and teach her a lesson in subordination. I’d unbutton those jean shorts and shimmy them down to her upper thighs. Maybe caress that plump ass a few times before I spanked it.
“Like summer,” I mutter.
She raises her brows. They’re sculpted into perfect arches. I have the urge to trace one with my fingertip, which is…disturbing.
But I want to touch some part of her. To put my hands on that bare waist and feel the texture of her smooth skin. To pick her up again and measure her weight. How would she feel straddling my hips and riding my cock?
Whoa. I just went way too far with that thought. My dick engorges with blood.
“Have a seat,” I say because there’s no way I can stand now without showing her effect on me. Not that I was going to stand, anyway. I need to establish some ground rules with her today.
I’m the boss.
She’s working for me.
She slides into the chair opposite me with more grace than you’d expect from a girl stomping around in a pair of military boots, looking like she wants to kick someone’s ass.
And she is just a girl. Twenty-three years old. A full decade younger than I am. I’m basically dealing with an insolent teenager here.
“Show me your concepts.”
“Good to see you, too.” Her smile tells me she’s unfazed by my rudeness. “Thank you for the food delivery the other night. I have enough leftovers in my freezer for the month now.”
I don’t answer. I still don’t know why I did it. Something about hearing her stomach growl had made my wolf antsy, and he couldn’t stand me driving away without being sure she had enough to eat.
Which was stupid. She is a grown woman who feeds herself every day.
She flips open her sketchbook on the table and pushes it across to me.
The page has a neat rectangle marked out to designate the edges of the mural. Within the lines, she’s sketched a cacophony of blooms. The perspective is close up, a la Georgia O-Keefe, but the canvas is packed with them, like they’re pressing forward and tumbling off the page.
“This is for the color one,” I say.
Aubrey smirks. “No.”