Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Poor girl,” I murmur to myself and call the car service.
Chapter 2
Conlan
I stand in the doorway of my bedroom and survey the disaster.
It’s a mess of pillows, clothes, empty bottles, and condom wrappers. People say a lot of things about me, but at least I practice safe sex. Lying in the middle of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, is the girl I slept with the night before.
Alissa Something.
Blonde hair. Nice tits. Straight, white teeth and the fakest laugh I’ve ever heard. I met her at some rich-people party up in the hills and only brought her home because she promised to fuck me.
Promised is an understatement—she followed me into the bathroom, shoved her tongue in my mouth and her hand down my pants, and said she wanted to ride my dick until her pussy broke.
I was drunk. Also a little high and very bored. So I figured, why not? Alissa seemed nice enough.
Certainly willing, anyway.
Now my head’s pounding. I barely remember what we did, but based on the state of the room, it wasn’t entirely seemly.
I text Isabel, letting her know that she’d better hurry with the car.
My poor assistant. I almost feel bad about all this, except there’s the hungry way she stares at me whenever I come downstairs shirtless in the mornings, which is the only reason I keep doing it.
She says I should stop, but come on.
I love that look.
Her little stare. The way her gaze shifts to my chest, my stomach, and back up to my eyes like she’s afraid of what she’s feeling.
Everything else about her frustrates the hell out of me.
She’s stuffy, obsessed with being professional, always giving me shit for the way I live, and constantly judging every little perceived mistake.
But there’s that fucking look.
Her big, green eyes, slightly widened, her pump, pink lips parted enough to show her teeth with that little gap in the front, her tongue pressing up behind it. Her dark hair cut straight across her forehead, long and wavy down to the middle of her back, usually pulled up in a tight bun. Her professional clothes, the way she does everything in her power to hide her figure—curvy, full, lovely—but even the most stodgy and formal outfits still manage to flatter her.
My assistant wants to fuck me. It’s obvious, except she hates me too, which makes it that much better.
It’s almost worth taking all her other shit.
“Good morning,” I say, kicking the mattress hard enough to shake the girl awake.
She stirs, groans, and lifts her head.
Just as I remembered. Extraordinarily average. She cracks a smile. “Morning,” she says, groggy. “What time is it?”
“A little past eight.” I glance at the clock. The first meeting is at nine and I need at least a half hour to make myself feel human again. “You have to go.”
Her smile disappears. “Sorry, what?”
“I have work.” I cock my head. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Oh. Right.” She shuffles up, not bothering to cover herself. The tits remain above average, but less impressive without an alcohol haze. “Do you mind if I shower?”
“Yes,” I say, gathering her stuff. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a dick, but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
Except I do mean to be a dick.
I learned a long time ago that being kind in this situation doesn’t help anyone. Don’t give her any false impressions about what last night means.
We fucked. Probably had fun, I’m not sure. Now it’s done.
“I can just clean up and let myself out. I won’t bother you.”
“I need the shower.” I shove a bundle of a bra, a dress, a shoe, and a belt into her arms. “My car’s on the way to bring you home.”
“Okay, sure, right, can I just use the toilet first?”
I’m tempted to say no. “Go ahead. I’m not unreasonable.”
Although I am.
She relieves herself and takes her time doing it. Eventually, she comes out, half-dressed and looking frazzled. “I’m missing my jewelry. And my bag. Also, where’s my phone? And my underwear?”
We spend a few minutes hunting it all down, but soon she’s stumbling out into the blinding daylight. Who the fuck made the sun so bright? “Last night was fun,” I say, gesturing toward the black sedan out front. “Really, it was great. I got your number already.”
“You did?” She looks confused.
I didn’t.
“Absolutely. I’ll call.”
“Okay. Great.”
I’m not really going to call.
“Good meeting you, Ali—” I stop. Her mouth twitches. I’m about to say Alissa but suddenly remember. “Allison.”
She beams. “You too.”
I give her a peck on the cheek, and as I escort her down the steps and toward the car, two guys come storming over with their cell phones out and their cameras start going off. Click, click, click, click, rapid-fire.
It’s disorienting. I’m not used to finding two surly-looking men in sweat-stained t-shirts with their cell phones out tapping away, not even bothering to mute the shutter noise. The older of the two, crew cut gray hair, thick gut, calls out at my date. “Allison Leyland, does your father know you’re here? Are the rumors about him true?”