Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 26892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
“Gavin!” A breathless scream shatters across my room.
“Goddamn, Genevieve.” He lets out a deep, guttural roar as he comes. His pants fill my ear as I slowly float in the headiness of the evening. We both stay silent, connected only by the sound of our combined inhales and exhales that are so choppy I’m surprised air is getting into our lungs.
“Fuck, baby girl.” His voice is completely wrecked with satisfaction. I lie sprawled across the mattress, a slow smile spreading across my face, and when I slide my fingers out of my center, another tremble skates through me.
“Get some sleep. Because tomorrow, you won’t be hiding behind a phone.” It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.
“Good night, Gavin,” I whisper softly into the phone.
“Good night, Genevieve.” The click on the other end is the last thing I hear. I drop my phone to the nightstand, noticing my book is on the floor, and instead of picking it up to continue reading, I do the exact opposite. I close my eyes and allow sleep to take me under, dreaming about a bossy billionaire doing dirty things to me.
CHAPTER SIX
gavin
Genevieve’s sweet, breathless echoes have been playing like a loop through my head since last night. Any time I close my eyes, hell, any time I stare off, I remember her soft Gavins and sweet-as-sin whimpers. The orgasm she delivered over the phone did nothing for my sleep. In fact, I tossed and turned all damn night. My cock didn’t get enough. I’m beginning to think this hunger for her is insatiable. Never mind the absolute destruction she wrought on my self-control.
Now, it’s not even midday, and I’m jonesing for her like an addict. The need to hear her voice again has my knee bouncing up and down. Better yet, I want my eyes on her, in the flesh, preferably naked and sitting on my desk, legs spread while I lap, lick, and suck on her pussy. I lean back in my leather chair, trying to tamp down the raging need to say fuck it to work today and go after my woman.
“Mr. Rhodes?” My secretary’s voice buzzes through the intercom right as I am getting ready to call Genevieve to take her to lunch. “Your son is here to see you. He says he doesn’t need an appointment.” I let out a long, heavy exhale as the sharp edge of desire is instantly doused by a familiar headache-induced tension.
“Send him in, Martha,” I say, my tone turning to steel. I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck as I brace myself. The volatile, fractured relationship with my son is a constant shadow over my life, deeply rooted in a past I can’t change. I wasn’t around him while he was being raised—not because I didn’t want to be, but because I had no idea he even existed. A careless one-night stand over twenty years ago caught up with me later in life when my son turned seventeen. His mother only reached out when he started getting into trouble, so serious it took my money to cover his mess and not ruin his future.
I coughed up the back child support. It wasn’t a big deal to me, money wasn’t the issue then, and it isn’t now. He’s my son, so I stepped up, paid what was owed, and tried to step into his life to do my part, attempting to right wrongs where the innocent party had no choice in the matter. What I didn’t expect was my child to be a spoiled, entitled brat. He grew up with zero discipline, and the moment realization hit that his biological father is a self-made billionaire, all he wanted and still wants is an open checkbook.
Not fucking happening on my watch.
I worked my way from the bottom to the top, eighteen-hour days, building an empire from nothing through sheer grit and determination. Hard work, dedication, and earning your keep aren’t anywhere in my son’s vocabulary.
The heavy doors of my office swing open with an unnecessary force, and my son walks in, leaving the door open behind him. At twenty-six years old, he carries himself with the attitude of a moody, prepubescent teenager. Even now, he strolls across the room, comes to stand in front of my desk, drags the leather chair out with a loud scrape, and flops down. Before I can even utter a word, he lifts his legs, kicks his scuffed sneakers up and straight onto the edge of my desk.
“Morning, Dad,” he says lazily, spinning a set of keys around his index finger. I stare at his shoes resting on my desk. The silence stretches between us while I try to get my annoyance under control. Any other person who had the nerve to disrespect me like this would have run away crying for their mother.