Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Jesus,” I mutter before dragging both hands through my hair. I’m frozen in place for a full ten seconds, staring down the empty hallway, willing myself not to go after her.
Eventually, I force myself to move. Once in my room, I strip off the tux. Shirt first, then belt and pants. Everything gets tossed aside in a careless pile as I beeline for the bathroom. What I need right now is a shower. Hot water and steam. Something to wash away the lingering feel of Chey and whatever the hell this tight, restless energy simmering inside me has become.
After turning the knob, I wait for the water to heat before stepping under the spray and bracing my palms against the tile as it pounds over the back of my neck.
It doesn’t help. Not even a little.
My brain is stuck in a vicious loop. Chey on the red carpet, gaze lifting right before I kissed her. The feel of her on the dance floor and the way she rested her head on my chest, as if it was always meant to be there. Her mouth opening beneath mine on the couch. Her lips brushing against my cheek just now.
It’s not just the physical intimacy running through my head. It’s her laugh when she beat me to the building after our run. The way she looked tonight when we got back here—tired, yes, but trusting me enough to let the walls slip a little.
I shut my eyes, blowing out a slow breath. For one brief second, I consider taking matters into my own hands and dealing with the tension myself. With how tightly wound I am, it would probably take less than thirty seconds.
Already, I know it won’t work. This has nothing to do with being turned on and everything to do with the woman sleeping across the hall from me. A quick release won’t fix the fact that I want more than just her body. When it comes down to it, I want her laugh in my kitchen, her bare feet on my hardwood floors, and her curled up on my couch at the end of each day.
That’s the real problem.
I shut off the water with more force than necessary, grab a towel, and scrub it over my hair before dragging on a pair of boxers and climbing into bed. Then I reach for my phone. I don’t scroll for more than thirty seconds before realizing that photos of us are everywhere. Red carpet shots and close-ups of the kiss. The two of us looking like we’d forgotten there was an audience.
Headlines are already popping up.
Is the Railers’ Bad Boy Off the Market?
Someone’s created a hashtag.
#KnoxAndChey
Another one follows right after.
#EmeraldAndIce
I let out a humorless huff.
Cute.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. I was just helping her out.
That’s it.
I was never supposed to get obsessed.
All right, maybe I’ve always been a little obsessed with the woman. Her living in my penthouse has just made it impossible to ignore.
I roll onto one side, then my back before flipping onto the other, but sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her against me all over again. The way she fit in my arms, turning pliant when I touched her. The way she looked standing in my living room with gratitude radiating from her, and that goddamn dress wrapped around her body like temptation.
My brain takes a turn for the worse, picturing her across the hall, curled up under the covers with her long auburn hair spread out across the pillow.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
That’s exactly the image I don’t need in my head right now. Eventually, I give up pretending there’s any chance I’m going to fall asleep, and shove the covers back, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool beneath my feet as I move down the hall, keeping the lights dim.
The baby grand sits near the wall of windows, black and glossy against the Chicago skyline. I stop in front of it for a second before settling on the bench. Playing the piano is something I learned as a kid when hockey wasn’t enough to burn off the restless energy building inside me. Dad claimed it was good for discipline.
For control.
I let my fingers move over the keys without thought or plan.
Just instinct.
The first notes are low and steady. Simple chords that fill the room and float through the quiet of the penthouse. After a few minutes, my shoulders begin to loosen. The tightness in my chest eases as the melody builds, and for a few minutes it almost takes my mind off her.
Even as the music carries through the dark, there’s one thought I can’t outrun.
Chey is here, in my home, filling a space I’m no longer sure I want to live alone in. My hands continue moving over the keys, but the pressure building inside me is too much to pass off as simple lust.