Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I meant their wallets, Matías.”
“Of course you did. No common thuggery for you.” Leave that to me, I think, pressing my phone between my ear and shoulder as I crack my tense knuckles. I recall a beating I administered without her knowledge. Or say-so. “We can’t have your ancestors turning in their graves, now can we?”
“Mausoleum.”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes and set off walking to the car again. “How silly of me to think they’d be put in common ground.”
“I have things to do, Matías. Are we adding Theta to the list and waging war on hedge funds on two continents?”
“Not Theta,” I say. I think Nigel might think twice now before believing industry gossip. My ego can calm the fuck down.
“Understood,” he murmurs. “It’s been a while since I ruined someone’s livelihood.”
“You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”
“This is not my play, Matías. But I wish you good fortune in your endeavors. Though I will say we are yet to meet the lady in question. The reason for all this.”
“Yeah, I know. Soon,” I add, almost crossing the fingers of my right hand.
“Not that I’d add undue pressure, but I might suggest you step up your security before Fin turns up on your doorstep.”
I chuckle. The golden retriever of our pack. Well, he’s not shagging my leg.
“It’s just a question of time. Ryan’s had a lot of adjustments to make.”
Or am I just making excuses for her?
“This wine is delicious.” Ryan sets down her glass and leans back in her chair, arching the small of her back a touch.
“I ordered it from Oliver’s wine merchant,” I say, trying not to let my mind drift back a couple of weeks at the tiny reminder. She looked so luscious draped across the counter, all dark eyed and replete.
I hope to God it isn’t long before I can taste her again. To hold her in my arms as we look forward to our future together.
“The fella said you can get pretty decent nonalcoholic varieties of wine these days.” Which is total shite, because the man wanked on and on about alcohol being needed to soften the tannins and smooth out acidity. He might also have bemoaned the “diabolical effect the process has on the mouthfeel.” Christ, I wanted to feel his mouth with my fist by the time he shut up.
But I digress.
It’s date night. At least, it is in my mind. Though the number per week is still mandated—nay, controlled—by my lovely companion, I look forward to these evenings over anything else.
A delicious meal, at home, of course, because anything outside these four walls might be misconstrued by the rest of the world. Little does she know we’ve been having romantic rendezvous at this table for months, and not just that time I pressed her to the countertop and ate her out.
God, I’m such a romantic.
But if we don’t have romance, at least we have sex. Sort of. Or maybe that’s just me, given I’ve taken to wanking myself half to death when she leaves to go back to her tiny apartment.
Tonight will be no different, I consider, as I allow my eyes to roam over her. She’s so fucking beautiful. Bountiful is the word that springs to mind, not that I’d say it out loud because she’d probably misconstrue it as a variant of large. Even if her breasts are—no word of a lie—huge. Magnificent, even.
Her body is so much fuller this month. She’s like a peach I want to sink my teeth into. In short, she makes my mouth water.
“How was your day?” Dear, I add mentally. Mi mujer. Mi amor.
“Fine.” Her gaze slides to the table, where she moves her napkin an inch to the side. “I did a little research. Looking at a couple of new opportunities.”
“Work or investments?”
At this, her gaze lifts. “Work is dead in the water.”
“A temporary thing.”
“Can’t make connections in the UK. And I can’t get my US connections to play ball.”
“It’ll all work out in the end.”
“It better,” she mutters.
“How’s your portfolio going?”
“Looking for tips?” She gives a humorous twist to her lips.
“Always.” God, I love it when she wears her hair down, I think with a happy sigh, watching how it curls softly around her shoulders. I also love finding her hair ties dotted around the house. It’s like the Ryan version of a “Hansel and Gretel” breadcrumb trail.
“I’m up double figures.”
“And that’s why it’ll work out,” I say, pointing her way, my other fingers still wrapped around my glass.
“Thanks, Matt.”
“What for? It’s the truth. Who could resist those figures?”
Or that figure. Her outfit a soft gray woolen two-piece—ribbed for her comfort, not for my viewing pleasure, though I’m enjoying the vista just the same. Square necked and sleeveless, her dress clings to her body like a sheath, all the way to her ankles. Her arms and shoulders are covered by a matching and very cute little-old-lady-style cardigan. It looks kinda like an old-fashioned bed jacket, rounded at the edges and joined at the neck by a ribbon tied in a bow.