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)
For now.
While I’m playing by the rules tonight, I have every intention of breaking every single one of them—and taking complete control before the night is over. The heavy glass doors to the restaurant swing open, allowing a cool gust of evening air to blow inside the doorway.
There she is.
My gaze snaps to her, completely dropping any pretense of casual indifference. She pauses inside the foyer, her head tilting as she looks around with a slight hesitancy to her movements. I couldn’t look away if the entire building caught on fire.
She’s a goddamn vision. A masterpiece made entirely for me to corrupt. She’s wearing a little strappy dress that’s a deep blue and clings desperately to every bit of her beautiful, generous curves. A cropped black jean jacket is paired with a simple black clutch she has tucked under her arm, and her feet are strapped into a pair of black stilettos. They accentuate her legs like no fucking other and make her look downright sinful. Her caramel brown curls tumble around her shoulders, wild and untamed. Whatever makeup she has on is understated, minus whatever is making her eyes look deep and sultry.
Thank Christ she isn’t one of the socialites who feels the need to starve herself. She’s a real, plush, breathtaking woman with curves a man like me needs to hold on to. My eyes travel down the front her dress, catching the gentle swell of her abdomen where the fabric is taut.
She’s intoxicating.
My hands itch to hold her soft hips, pulling her flush against my chest while sinking my teeth into the sensitive crook of her neck until she’s writing beneath me. I drop my gaze lower to her thighs. Fucking perfection. A vivid, filthy thought hits me straight in my cock, causing it to thicken in length—her thighs pressed firmly against either side of my head, holding me captive while I tongue-fuck her out of her mind, listening to her full lips scream my name until she’s hoarse.
My dick strains against my pants, causing me to shift slightly on the barstool to discreetly adjust myself beneath the tailored fabric before I dare stand up. I take a slow, grounding breath, attempting to stay composed. It’s a hell of a fight considering I’ve been thinking about Genevieve every damn day, morning, noon, and night.
I step away from the bar, more than ready to close the distance between us. As I make my approach, her eyes drift to meet mine. They widen a fraction as recognition sets in, her full lips part slightly on a gasp, and a hot flush creeps along her cheeks. Genevieve is nervous, slightly trembling, but she doesn’t look away.
“Genevieve,” I say, my tone coming out lower, rougher, and thicker than I intended.
“Gavin,” she replies, her voice soft. Her smokey eyes search mine, wary yet entirely magnetic. I don’t give her space. I step right into her personal bubble, invading her territory, close enough to catch the faint, sweet scent of warm spun sugar.
“You look absolutely stunning.” I offer my elbow, establishing physical contact for the first time this evening. It takes considerable effort to hide the hunger burning in my eyes as I drag them down her body and back up again.
“Thank you.” Her fingers slide along the inside of my arm. The light touch sends pure fucking adrenaline straight through my nervous system. I hold her hand against my suit, locking her in place. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” Gennie gives me a shy smile.
“Mr. Rhodes?” The hostess steps forward, breaking the trance that settled between the two of us. I nod and she continues. “Your table is ready.”
“Thank you.” I guide Gennie through the ambient low light of the main dining room. I lose her hand in the crook of my arm when we have to maneuver around a couple of tables, and it allows me to slip my hand to the small of her back. My wide palm spans the slope of her waist, applying a firm pressure to command her movement, steering her through the crowd. Genevieve shivers at the contact, but she doesn’t move away from my touch, she leans into it.
I can feel others watching us—wealthy men and socialites turning their heads as we pass—but I don’t give a damn about any of them. If any fucking man dares to look at Gennie too long, I’ll lose control. My grip on her waist tightens, a clear, silent warning to everyone in the room: She’s mine.
We reach the back of the establishment, past the open seating areas, where the hostess pulls aside a heavy velvet drape to reveal a private candlelit alcove tucked away in a secluded corner of the restaurant.
The noise drops off, replaced by the soft distant hum of jazz and the warm, golden flicker of candles bouncing off the wood paneling. It’s private, completely shielding us from prying eyes, and outfitted with a plush leather booth. It’s a trap, one I set up, and she walked right into.