Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
He leans in and kisses me softly and then hands me a glass of champagne.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
He kisses me again, as if unable to stop, and I can hear the other person, a woman, speaking a million miles a minute to him in French.
“Who is it?” I frown.
“My PA,” he mouths. He moves his head from side to side, as if she is taking too long to say what she’s saying. “Oui, oui, nous en parlerons lundi. Je dois y aller. Au revoir,” he replies.
He listens as she keeps speaking, and he rolls his eyes impatiently.
I smile as I sip my champagne. The cool, crisp taste dances on my tongue. Oh yeah. I eye the glass of bubbles—this is the good stuff.
“Okay, je dois y aller. Passer un bon week-end, au revoir,” he says. He hangs up and then turns his phone off and turns toward me.
“About time.” I smirk.
He takes me into his arms. “Anderson.” He smiles down at me as he pumps my hips into his. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I smile goofily up at him. He towers above me. He must be six foot three at least. His dark hair is messed to perfection, and his lips are a perfect shade of come fuck me.
“Well, I felt sorry for you.” I shrug. “This is a pity date.” I look around at the grand apartment. “Not sure if I can spend the whole weekend in this dump, though.”
He chuckles. “I do love your smart-ass mouth.” He pumps me with his hips once more. “I may have to fuck it later.”
I giggle as he kisses me again. This one has a little tongue, and it’s as if he’s licking me there . . . my entire insides clench in appreciation.
He steps back and holds out his hand to the Eiffel Tower. “Welcome to Paris.”
“Oui, oui.” I smile.
He pulls out a chair and sits at the table. He refills my glass. “How was your flight?”
“Good.” I frown as a thought runs through my mind. “You have a French PA?”
“Yes.” He shrugs casually. “I spend a lot of time here.”
“How much?”
He scratches his head as he thinks. “Maybe four or five months a year,” he replies casually, as if this is no big deal.
“You live here for a third of the year?” I ask in surprise.
“Yeah.” He sips his champagne. “My brothers Elliot and Christopher and I share the operations of the French, English, and German offices. We take turns so that one of us is always at each place.”
“Why don’t you just take one office each?” I ask.
“Because then”—he sips his wine—“we would all live alone on the other side of the world from one another. This way, we’re all doing the same job and sharing the responsibilities and see each other and talk all the time.”
“You’re close to your brothers?”
“Yes.” He frowns, as if that’s a weird question. “They’re my best friends. We’ve been alone together for a long time.”
“Alone?” I repeat. “I thought your parents were still alive?”
“Oh, they are. But I mean . . .” He pauses, as if contemplating his answer. “We went to boarding school together overseas from a young age. We shared a room, and it has mostly always been just the four of us.”
“Oh.” I sip my wine, and I find myself wanting to ask a million questions about his formative years. “How come you went to boarding school?”
“For the languages.” He shrugs. “Among other things.”
“You are all multilingual?”
“Yes. We need to be in this business.” He exhales deeply as he stares out over the view. “We’ve always been in training to take over Miles Media. There was never a time when we were . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s cut himself short. He seems uncomfortable with the topic.
“Well, that makes sense, then,” I interrupt.
“What does?”
“Why you’re such a dirty-talking cad. You had no discipline as a child.”
He smiles.
“I bet you were all fucking your governesses in boarding school.”
He puts his head back and laughs out loud. “Jameson was, actually, come to think of it.”
“Really?” I gasp. Jameson is his older brother and the CEO of Miles Media. We both laugh, and his eyes linger on my face.
“So now that you have me here, Mr. Miles, what are you going to do with me?” I ask.
“Hmm.” His eyes hold mine. “The possibilities are endless, really.”
I smile.
“You have three options, Anderson.”
“Yes.”
“You can get your smart-ass mouth fucked.”
I smile. That sounds pretty good, actually.
“Or you can bend over, and I’ll give my own version of the Eiffel Tower.”
I chuckle. He’s so ridiculous. Where does he come up with this stuff?
“Or”—he sips his drink and casually shrugs—“I suppose I could take you out for dinner and dancing or something equally boring.”
I smile over at him.
He raises a sexy eyebrow. “Well?”
I narrow my eyes as I fake concentration. “I’ll take dinner and dancing, thank you.”