Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
He pulls away, and my elbows give out, causing me to collapse backward onto the couch. And then he’s there, hovering above me. Fuck, he looks impressive. His tanned, toned skin basically glistens, and his cock is so fucking hard and large, and it is pointing right at me.
“Soren,” a voice calls from the entryway.
I scream, searching for something to cover myself with. Soren quickly grabs one of the large pillows and throws it at me, then takes the other for himself as the woman repeats his name. He groans and turns, giving me a good view of his ass as his goddamn sister walks in.
She stops in her tracks when she spots us, and her hand goes to her hip. “You have company,” she says, as if that’s not blatantly obvious. “Oh, it’s her. Did you have your playtime and get what you wanted out of her yet?” she asks her brother, but I know it’s directed at me.
“What did you call her? Oh, that’s right. Journalist trash.” She laughs.
A flare of anger hits me at her words, followed closely by disappointment. I stand and step past Soren to where my dress is pooled on the kitchen floor. Dropping the pillow, not even caring about my nudity, I shimmy my dress up my body until I’m able to zip it back up. Then I grab my phone and my purse before I slip on my heels.
When I have everything I need, I turn to look at Soren. “Lose my number,” I deadpan, then turn toward his sister and say, “You have unhealthy boundaries. Maybe you should start knocking before you walk into your brother’s home.”
She looks stunned that I would say such a thing to her.
“Are you going to let one of your whores talk to me like that?” she screams at Soren. I laugh, still fueled by the alcohol, and push past her toward the door.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Maya?” I hear Soren growl.
If I had that voice directed at me, I’d be cowering.
I know he’s mad, but I don’t care.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside and press the button for the lobby. I see him watching me, but he doesn’t do anything to stop me, so I flip him off as the doors shut.
And I swear I see a twitch of his lips when it closes.
TWENTY-SIX
SOREN
The one night I tell Maya not to come to my apartment, she shows up. Of course she fucking does.
My jaw aches from clenching it. I can feel my pulse hammering there, a steady reminder of how close I am to losing my shit. She stands in front of me, calm as ever, and it only makes the heat climb higher. I drag in a breath through my nose, hold it, and let it out slowly, again and again, until the edges of my vision stop narrowing. My hands curl into fists, then open. Don’t say it. Don’t shout it. The words in my throat are hot and sharp, but I force them down. When I finally look at her, I’ve buried the rage deep enough to pass the calm, though it still thrums beneath my skin, waiting.
“I need money,” she says, almost pleading, after just calling my little nemesis Hurricane a fucking whore. Which pisses me off more than it should because it’s not just the insult, it’s the audacity of asking for help right after spitting venom.
Groaning, I reach for the other pillow and cover my ass as I make my way to my bedroom. Maya follows me, but I slam the door in her face so she can’t come in.
“Come on, Soren, please.” She bangs her hand on the door, her voice dipping into that familiar, sugar-coated desperation she uses when she wants something. The sound grates on my last nerve, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a response right away. Instead, I snag a pair of pants from a drawer, take my time to slide them up my legs, and then open the door.
“Fuck off, Maya. I’m this close”—I pinch my fingers together, a sliver of space between them—“to cutting all ties with you.”
Her expression twists with shock and hurt, the weight of my words hitting her like a slap she never saw coming. Not once have I ever spoken to her that way. I’ve always measured my words, softened my tone, and done everything I could to protect her from the truth. But that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it? All this carefulness has only taught her that she can say whatever she wants without consequence. And if I keep letting it slide, if I keep protecting her, it’ll never stop.
“Leave. You’ve already fucked up my night,” I tell her. “And I have to prepare for tomorrow night.”
“What’s so important about tomorrow?” she asks. “Is it more important than me?” The sad puppy-dog eyes she gives me usually work—they always do.