Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86322 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
For three hours, I stood by his side, forcing smiles and false pleasantries while everyone congratulated us on our engagement. Instead of slapping his hand away, I endured the warmth of his palm on my lower back every single fucking second.
Now, I sat in the too-small backseat of the hired car on our way home, pressing myself to the opposite door, trying to get as far away from him as possible.
Now, even though we were finally alone, I ignored his presence and choked back all the words I’d imagined spewing at him. I feared that once I started, I wouldn’t stop.
Now, I held myself under the tightest control, silently repeating the mantra that if I made it home, I’d be okay. If I made it home, I’d get the release he denied me. Alone.
I stared at the city lights flashing by and imagined going to my room, pulling out my vibrator, and getting myself off. I didn’t need Lucian fucking Daire.
At least I hoped not.
I’d tried to orgasm with a toy before, but never reached that peak of pleasure.
But that was before, when I couldn’t orgasm at all. Surely, now that I’d orgasmed with Lucian, I’d be able to have an orgasm on my own.
I’d make sure I could.
I did not. Need. Lucian. Daire.
The car barely stopped at the curb of Lucian’s building before I bolted. If I could make it to the elevator before him, maybe he’d miss it.
Nope.
He stalked behind me like a nightmare I couldn’t escape. No matter how fast I moved, he was always there. He strolled into the elevator with placid features that still dripped with more arrogance than any man should possess.
By the time we crossed the threshold into the apartment, my control poured from every movement.
I slapped my purse on the entryway table.
I ripped off my shoes and tossed them aside, where they clattered against the kitchen tiles.
I smacked my hand against the railing and stomped up each ascending step.
“Where are you going?” he asked, the calm to my storm.
“To bed,” I answered halfway up the stairs. “Without you.”
He grunted his disapproval from the bottom step. “Not before I check to ensure you followed my order tonight.”
I faltered, almost missing a step, and sucked in a breath, amazed that he thought I would let him touch me after tonight. “Fuck off.”
“That’s not a polite response.”
I flipped him off over my shoulder, focusing on my escape.
“Are you still upset, princess?”
That damn nickname, said in such a casual tone, wrapped around me and squeezed, locking me in place just as I made it to the top. I whipped around and glared. “Do. Not. Fucking. Call me that.”
He scanned me from head to toe, studying me with a tilt of his head, like I was some odd piece of art he didn’t understand. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
His relaxed posture, aloof expression, and that maddeningly calm tone—laced with amusement and false sincerity—struck a spark straight through my restraint. Anger flared so hot it robbed me of speech. Instead, an unhinged, screeching growl tore from my throat as I spun and bolted. I needed distance from this man before I killed him.
I almost made it to my room. Almost.
His hand clamped around my arm, yanking me back into him before crowding me against the wall.
“This is familiar,” he murmured, smirking down at me.
“Let. Go.”
“Not until I’ve checked.”
Again, that cool tone grated along the frayed rope of my control.
It pissed me off.
It made me feel unhinged.
It left me vibrating on the brink of bursting.
Balanced on the edge of exploding, I made a decision. If he was going to push and push and push—then I wasn’t going alone. I would take him with me.
I shoved him, trying to skirt away, but he towered over me with his height and backed me down the hall—closer to his room.
Dammit.
“Isn’t your hand tired after all that work earlier?” I sneered.
His mouth twitched. “Worried about my hands?”
I glared, my mind too scattered to shape a careful response, grasping for anything that might crack his composure. I hurled the first words that reached my lips, messy and unfiltered. “I’m more worried that my future husband might be too scared to use his cock.”
He froze mid-step.
His eyes tightened.
The muscle along his jaw ticked.
I relished the direct hit, not fully understanding the crack in his aloof exterior, but soaking up the win.
“I’m more worried about your poor pussy taking my cock as hard and rough as I fuck.”
“I’ve taken it before.”
“Miss me?”
God, yes. The truth almost slipped free, but I choked it back. “Hardly,” I answered instead.
“Really?” he asked, his brow arching. “So, if I reach under your dress, past all my cum painting your thighs, I wouldn’t find you wet and begging for my dick?”
Heat blossomed in my chest, and I sucked in a sharp breath, praying the flush wouldn’t climb my neck to my cheeks. Because I was wet—so fucking wet. The last thing I needed was for him to find out. The last thing I needed was for him to touch me again—knowing that if he did, I’d fall straight back into the pleading, desperate mess he’d left me in before.