Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
We were now together—alone—with no one to stop him when he’d grind my body up and turn me into meatballs for defying his words and showing up here.
My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to puke.
“Look, I—” I tried to explain my presence at the club, but he raised his hand to cut me off.
“What happened to you tonight is not a representation of my club or the people inside it. I know things can get rowdy in here, but sexual harassment is where we draw the line. I’d like to offer you a hundred-dollar voucher for your troubles, Miss … Roberts.” His eyes scanned me, though there was no desire or want in his expression.
I bit down on my lip to prevent my mouth from gaping in shock when I figured it out.
Sam didn’t recognize me.
He had no idea who I was.
How would he? With my bleach blonde wig, costume, full face of makeup, and sunglasses.
My heart lurched, urging me to take advantage of the situation. The opportunity was overwhelming. To have Sam without really having Sam.
I knew Boston’s favorite monster was notorious for sleeping with every willing woman. Why not me?
Because it is immoral, corrupt, and unfair, a voice inside me chided, in a slight French accent, her accent. Not to mention, you deserve a man who would beg for you, not vice versa.
Yeah, she still haunted me. A decade after her death.
But Sam didn’t have any morals. Why not play by his rules?
“Who said I didn’t want the attention?” I tilted my chin up, adopting a smokier, raspier tone than my own.
Sam arched a thick, dark eyebrow, lazily perched on his desk, strong arms folded across his massive chest.
“Your body language did, for one thing. Some read books, I read people. You tried tugging your arm free, the international signal for get-the-fuck-away. I noticed you on the monitor.” He flicked his chin toward the screen on his desk, in which black and white footage of the club from every angle danced across multiple frames.
I let loose a blood-red smile.
“You’re right. He wasn’t my type. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t come here to get some action.”
“Is that so?” he asked, disinterested.
“Yes.” My voice barely shook when those words I found at the carnival on the restroom wall came to mind.
Lust lingers, love stays.
Lust is impatient, love waits.
Lust burns, love warms.
Lust destroys, but love? Love kills.
S.A.B.
Samuel Austin Brennan.
Was I an idiot to think it was him? That these words were once upon a time directed at me?
“Better get out there and try your luck, then.” His voice was like a freezing cold shower dousing my advances.
“Or maybe we could help each other.” I played with a tendril of bleached hair, careful not to tug too hard on the wig and blow my own cover.
Sam’s smile was wry and skeptic. “Who said I’m on the prowl?”
“Your blood type.”
“You know my blood type?”
“Hot-blooded,” I explained.
“Hot or cold, you can’t handle me, sweetheart.”
“Try me.”
His gaze glided down my body slowly, as if trying to decide if I was worth unzipping his pants. I trembled, aware he could find out who I was any second.
The more we spoke, the more my voice became unsteady. Shrill. Aisling-like. He seemed to be considering this, stroking his chin.
“Turn around,” he instructed.
I did, painfully aware he was checking out my ass. It was a good ass. Four yoga classes a week with Mother, despite my busy schedule as a first-year resident. But that was the thing with unrequited love: you always deemed yourself unworthy of the subject of your admiration.
“Lift your skirt for me.” His steel voice cut through the air behind me. I did as he asked, even though I knew he would find something unexpected.
My white cotton underwear, sensible and a size too big. Practical for a woman who wore scrubs all day and completely out of character.
I heard him chuckle. My heart sank.
“Get out of here.”
I spun my head around, my skirt still bunched up my waist, my ass in his direction.
“I know men like you,” I hissed seductively.
“There are no men like me.”
“I can make it good for you,” I insisted.
“Doubt that.” He tilted his head sideways, laughing quietly. “Out.”
Brazenly, I pushed my panties aside, to show him most of my behind, while playing with myself. The sound of my arousal meeting my fingers filled the air, making it known that I was very much ready to be taken.
“Please …” I let my head fall sideways, biting down on my lower lip as I provided him a good angle to watch me masturbate.
He said nothing.
Small mercies. He is giving you another chance. Don’t blow it.
I turned around before he changed his mind, swaggering toward him on my thigh-high, high-heeled leather boots, knowing it was now or never. Sam Brennan would never give Aisling Fitzpatrick a chance, but to this stranger he still might. When I was close enough to touch him, I sank down to my knees, looking up at him through my big, dark sunglasses.