Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Suddenly, I was having all sorts of images flash across my mind. Like slamming the door, pressing her back against the wall, dropping down on my knees, and getting lost between her thick thighs, like suffocating myself with those perfect fucking tits of hers, like yanking down her panties and surging inside of her.
“No. Well, in a way. I have a standing appointment with Phil,” I explained, willing my cock to behave as she just stood there with all that pretty.
“Oh, okay. I’m sorry to tell you, but my Uncle Phil—“
“Is dead. Yeah, the shop manager said that. Just like that, in fact,” I told her, watching her roll her eyes, a soft smile tugging at her plump lips.
“I’ve come to find that David can be a bit…”
“Rude?” I supplied.
“I was going to say ‘blunt,’” she said. “Which can be a bit refreshing. Sometimes. But, yes, my uncle passed away.”
“And you inherited the garage?” I asked, waving a hand out.
“The garage, the house, a storage unit I’m starting to fear may be filled with more old files and keys that don’t appear to actually open anything.” Reaching into the desk drawer, she produced a ring of keys that would make any janitor jealous. “I mean… what is this? This is the third ring I have found just like this.”
“He was a bit of a packrat, huh?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know what I found he had a collection of under his bed,” she said, nose wrinkling up. “Anyway, sorry,” she said, exhaling hard.
“No need to apologize.”
“What are we supposed to be having a meeting about, Mr.…”
“Grassi,” I supplied, watching to see if the name meant anything to her. “Santo Grassi.”
“Mr. Grassi,” she repeated.
“Santo,” I corrected, but only because I wanted to hear her sweet voice say my name. And not because it would help me imagine her moaning it while I was balls-deep ins—
Jesus Christ.
What was wrong with me?
“Santo,” she repeated. “I’m Dasha,” she said, holding her hand out for me to shake.
I didn’t need to know she smelled like fucking honeysuckle. Or that she had the softest skin I’d ever felt as I slid my hand into hers.
More fodder for those sexual fantasies, no doubt.
“Dasha, nice to meet you,” I said. “You know what? I am going to go ahead and let you settle in, figure out… all that,” I told her, gesturing toward the desk. “Then we can have a meeting.”
I was absolutely not making that offer just because I wanted an excuse to meet with her again. Because that would be fucked.
“Are you sure?” she asked, though her shoulders sagged in relief. She was clearly overwhelmed by everything.
And it wasn’t like their protection money would make or break the Family anyway.
“Yeah. How about I come back next week?”
“Sure. That would be great. I promise I’ll be less of a mess then. Or, at least, I will know your name,” she said with another big smile.
“I can settle for that.”
And maybe a nice, slow fuck on top of her desk.
Christ.
I had to get out of there.
“I’ll see you next week then.”
CHAPTER THREE
Dasha
Something was off with the books.
I mean, if you can even call them ‘the books,’ that is.
It was more like a disorganized stack of receipts and notes in such horrible chicken scratch writing that I could only make out every third or fourth word.
Still, the numbers just weren’t adding up.
True, math had never been my strong suit. Or even my third—or fourth, or, fine, fifth—best subject in school. Still, I did know how to add. And double-check my results with the handy-dandy calculator app on my phone. Even when I rounded up the numbers, assuming that my uncle didn’t want to nitpick on change, it didn’t even come close to adding up.
I was just coming to that realization when David knocked, threw open the door, and let a strange man into my office.
I mean, I wasn’t complaining. Because, dang, what a man.
He looked like he stepped out of a magazine ad for some designer watches or cologne or something. All tall and fit under an expensive-looking suit, with one of those classically handsome faces with a strong jaw and somewhat brooding brow, warm honey-brown eyes, and dark hair that was cut a bit longer than you would expect for a man in a suit.
Everything about him dripped money and confidence and sex appeal.
Then there was the scent of him. Rich coffee and creamy cocoa. It was the most intoxicating scent I’d ever smelled before.
I usually kind of hated men’s cologne. It was too spicy for me. But whatever this guy had on, it was delicious and subtle, begging you to lean in closer, maybe press your nose into his neck…
Okay.
Yeah.
I needed to focus.
On literally anything other than how good he looked and smelled.
Or, you know, that smooth, sexy sound of his voice when he spoke, and how his mouth moved around the words.