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 belly flutters as he does. It’s weird to let him take care of me this way.
Not weird because I don’t usually let guys take care of me–I do. But weird because I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of it.
I wouldn’t have thought he knew how to be intimate. Or tender.
I remember what Madi said–that he’s very good at knowing what people want.
But I gave him no reason to believe I want anything from him besides ripping him a new one every time he walks in the room.
He slides one of the straps over my shoulder but unbuckles the other one, letting the front bib fold on the diagonal to expose my breast. Then he brushes the back of his knuckle over my peaked nipple. “I was right.”
Billy
Aubrey tastes like heaven. Like something foreign and familiar at the same time.
Like mine.
It’s a damn good thing I jacked off earlier, or I wouldn’t have been able to hold myself back. I would’ve yanked her down to the floor and fucked her into oblivion.
But as it is, I won this round. I gave her a hint of the pleasure she could have with me.
Now she’ll want more.
The first taste is free.
The next time, you’ll pay for it, darling.
She’ll pay with her submission. I want her body and soul. Fully surrendered to me. Mine for the ravishing.
Right now, she can’t decide if she’s pissed or pleased with me. She’s weighing whether I have the upper hand.
If she needs to fight back.
I let her regain her dignity by turning to the cabinet and pulling out two plates. “What would you like to eat?” My voice is almost friendly. My usual clipped tones have softened into something warmer.
I can’t deny the buoyancy in my body. My wolf celebrates getting hands on the lush human.
It’s satisfying despite the fact that she’s everything I don’t want in my life. I may love the way she tastes, but I definitely don’t need anything more from her. My life is complete without a chaotic artist who shatters my sense of order and structure.
Who invades my sanctuary and makes it into her personal playground.
I hand her a plate, and we make eye contact for a moment as she accepts it.
I swear I see the exact moment she decides to just relax and let me take care of her. The oxytocin from the orgasm is probably flooding her body with feel-good, bonding sensations.
That’s right, Silver. No sense in fighting me.
I always win.
It’s just a matter of how you want to feel as you go down.
She could enjoy having my dick down her throat. Or she could choke on it. Either way, it was going to happen.
That was a crass metaphor only, of course. I never take a female without full consent.
I watch her pile food on her plate, and my wolf preens at having satisfied her in two ways today.
But she hasn’t satisfied me yet, the ruthless businessman in me protests, examining whether the trade was fair.
Not true. I am satisfied. I have her exactly where I want her. In my penthouse, beholden to me. Working for me. I have her juices on my tongue, and she just gave me two beautiful orgasms.
My wolf is satisfied.
I am satisfied.
I can’t fucking wait to see how she looks when she begs for more. Or how she looks when I give her a ride on my dick.
I’m suddenly harder than marble.
Fuck, I wait until my erection lowers before I take my food to the table by the window where she’s already invited herself to sit.
No sense in giving her any sense of power.
My goal is to completely strip her of it and leave her breathless and begging for more.
She may not know this, but there’s no negotiation I haven’t won.
She pops her earbuds in when I sit down, her version of giving me the middle finger. I hear the cheesy strains of 80’s pop coming through them.
She eats quickly, then stands, and waltzes to the kitchen, where she rinses her plate and drops it in the dishwasher. I half expected her to leave it in the sink as another message to me, but doing her fair share is likely too ingrained in her.
She wasn’t born into pack royalty like me or Brick. She works hard for her money.
She starts singing “Manic Monday” loudly as she sashays back to the living room.
Now she’s just fucking with me. I have virtual meetings this afternoon with my team members. I can’t have her voice be heard in the background, no matter how gorgeous it is.
Especially because of how gorgeous it is.
My wolf hackles suddenly rise in possessiveness. Mine.
No one else gets to hear her.
See her.
Touch her.
Because he sends a rush of aggression to the fore, I snap, “No singing.”
Aubrey stops and slowly turns to look over her shoulder. “I require music to work.”