Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Her mouth curves faintly. “You talk about life like it’s a hostile takeover.”
“It’s more efficient that way.”
“But surely, lonelier?”
The word lands softly.
“I like solitude,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look at her more closely now. “You’re very direct.”
“I don’t like guessing games.”
“Most people do.”
“I restore damaged things for a living,” she says. “Guessing wrong can ruin them.”
The honesty in that tightens something in my throat for a moment.
“Tell me something else,” she says gently. “Something no one would assume about you.”
I consider deflecting. Instead, I decide to give her something. “I play the piano.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You do not.”
“Sorry, I do.”
“Classical?”
“Of course.”
She leans forward, her chin resting lightly in her hand.
“When?”
“Late. When I can’t sleep.”
“What do you play?”
“Rachmaninoff. Chopin. Whatever demands precision.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “You’re far more layered than you pretend to be.”
“I don’t pretend to be a machine.”
“You absolutely do.”
“And you?” I counter. “You hide plenty.”
Her eyes flash with surprise. “I do not.”
“You deflect with humor when something matters.”
She opens her mouth, presumably to argue the point, then she snaps it closed again. “That’s observant,” she admits after a moment.
“Listening is my thing, remember?” I remind.
She reaches for the wine at the same time as I do. Our fingers brush deliberately this time. Neither of us pulls away immediately.
“What scares you?” she asks suddenly.
I arch a brow. “That escalated fast.”
“Answer me.”
I glance down at our hands, still touching lightly around the glass bottle. I gently pick the wine bottle up and pour out the last of the wine, sharing it between our glasses.
“Wasted potential,” I say.
She frowns slightly. “Meaning?”
“Building something halfway. Settling for mediocrity. Investing in the wrong future.”
She studies me as her thumb shifts slightly against mine. “I’m afraid of being too noticeable,” she says quietly.
“Why fear it? You are someone who naturally commands attention. Most women would weaponize it, but one of the nicest things about you is that you don’t.”
She smiles at that, a small, conspiratorial smile that feels like it belongs to just us. She tells me smaller things about herself then. Like the way she drinks her coffee too hot and burns her tongue every time. And her habit of reading the last page of a novel first to see if it’s worth the emotional investment.
“That’s monstrous,” I tell her.
“It’s efficient,” she shoots back.
“It ruins the narrative arc.”
“It protects my heart.”
I shake my head. “You are chaos disguised as order.”
“And you are sentiment disguised as order.”
There it is again, that unsettling accuracy. I don’t know how she does it, but Jo sees me more clearly than anyone I’ve ever known.
The waiter clears our now empty dessert plates, but neither of us moves to leave. Halfway through dinner, another couple came in, but even they have left. Even the city outside seems dimmer, more private.
Jo laughs at something I say, head tipping back slightly, and I find myself leaning in without thinking. Drawn to her. Every time she reaches for her glass, her fingers graze mine. Every time she makes a point, she touches my wrist as if anchoring herself. None of it feels accidental.
I find myself memorizing the cadence of her voice.
“You’re very intense when you’re listening,” she says suddenly.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No.” Her eyes soften. “It makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.”
I don’t break eye contact. “You are.”
The words hang there unpolished. True. For a man who builds structures to avoid unpredictability, I’m leaning dangerously far into something I can’t model or forecast.
But I don’t step back.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
AXEL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOJk0HW_hJw
-is this love-
Finally, Jo and I agree it’s time to leave the restaurant. Jo takes my arm as we leave the dining room and walk across the foyer towards the old-fashioned elevator. I reach out and press the call button, and the elevator starts making cranking noises. Jo looks up at me and smiles. Even that cranking sound is perfect. The doors groan open, and we get inside the tiny enclosure. I press the button marked six. The doors begin to slide shut, then stop.
Jo laughs. “Tell it to close,” she whispers.
“Close, Mr. Elevator,” I order with mock seriousness.
But the door stays stuck.
“Maybe it only speaks French,” Jo suggests, eyes glittering cheekily.
My throbbing cock says, ‘indulge her. Consult your language app’. I open my app and growl, “Close the damn doors.”
Jo giggles as the robotic female voice of my app says, “Ferme ces putain de portes!”
To my amused astonishment, the door closes obediently.
“See, I told you. You can talk to paintings and elevators,” Jo says smugly.
The elevator makes a grinding sound then starts moving.
I step behind her, my hands sliding around her waist in a possessive hold. She leans back into me instinctively, her breath hitching as I nuzzle her neck.
Her soft moan hits me like a live wire. Instantly, every rational thought deserts me, and I feel the familiar surge of desire, the hardening of my cock, the need to be inside of this woman. She tilts her head back onto my shoulder, and I can feel her soft skin against my cheek. Then she leans further back into me, pressing against my chest, and I resist the urge to devour her there in the elevator, clinging to the last vestige of control. She grinds her ass against me, and the control vanishes as my cock rubs against her.