Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
As she tucks a strand behind her ear, the helix and conch piercings catch the light. The only reason I know is because I wanted one back in high school, but Dad looked at me as though I asked for a forehead tattoo.
I never knew it would look so hot.
She catches me staring when the bartender slides her drink across the bar. Her eyes meet mine for a split second before she looks away, but there's something in that glance—not embarrassment, exactly. More like she's deciding whether I'm worth the trouble.
"Shirley Temple," I say. "Bold choice for a hotel bar at nine PM."
She turns back to me, one eyebrow raised. "You have something against childhood nostalgia?"
"Not against it. Just didn't expect to see it ordering drinks next to me."
"Well, I didn't expect to see someone actually drinking the bourbon they charge almost twenty dollars for, so I guess we're both full of surprises."
Smart mouth. I like that. "Fair point. Though in my defense, the coffee here costs twelve dollars and tastes like they filtered it through a gym sock three times, so the bourbon's actually a bargain."
She laughs. The sound hits me square in the chest, and suddenly my pants feel tighter than they did thirty seconds ago. What the fuck? Did I actually just get hard because of that?
"You're staying here?" she asks.
"Two weeks. Business." I take another sip of my overpriced bourbon. "You?"
"God, no. I live here. I just needed a drink somewhere nobody from work would find me." She takes a long pull from her Shirley Temple, and I watch the way her lips close around the straw. Christ, what is happening to me? "Though I'm starting to think I should have picked somewhere cheaper."
"Bad day?"
"Bad week. Bad month, actually. There's this guy everyone's been talking about for the past week, and he's supposed to arrive any day now. Word is he's a complete nightmare."
"Nightmare how?"
"Oh, you know the type. Probably refuses his coffee unless the beans are harvested from Mars and ground to his exact liking. Probably doesn't believe in lunch breaks and thinks overtime is a given and not optional. The kind of guy who thinks 'please' is a sign of weakness." She stirs her drink with the little plastic straw. "I'm probably being dramatic, but I've been dreading it since they announced he was coming. I haven't had a good night's sleep. Maybe it's because I actually enjoy working that the thought of anyone disrupting my peace is almost unfathomable."
The irony is so thick I could cut it with a knife. Here I am, sitting next to a woman who's dreading a new hire's arrival, and here I am, already hoping I could go back to HQ. The smart thing would be to change the subject because the last thing I want to talk about is work. The smart thing would be a lot of things I'm not doing right now.
"Maybe he won't be as bad as advertised," I say, hoping for her sake the guy's reputation is an exaggeration.
"That's what my friend, Jaden, keeps saying, but Jaden also thinks pineapple belongs on pizza and it's fine to lie down in your bed with your shoes on, so his judgment is questionable." She glances at me sideways. "What about you? You seem like you'd know the type. Corporate?"
"Something like that." Not a lie, exactly, but like I said, I don't want to talk about work right now. "And for the record, pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. So are shoes on the mattress."
"Finally someone who understands. That's what I've been telling him. Thank you." She shifts on her stool, turning to face me more directly, and her knee brushes against mine. She doesn't move it away, but neither do I. In a few seconds, I'll probably spontaneously combust because now my cock strains against my zipper, and there's nothing I can do about it. "Finally, someone with sense."
"I'm Matthew, by the way."
"Vivian."
She extends her hand, and I wrap my bigger one around it. It's a fucking handshake, but my caveman brain somehow thinks it's foreplay. Visions of her hair fanned across my pillow, her mouth moaning my name, her toes curled, her back arched, assault my senses. I can almost taste her on my tongue. Feel her slickness wrapped around my cock as I pound into her. Fuck.
I shake the thoughts away. Press my hands down hard against my thighs. Why the hell am I acting like a hormonal teenager seeing a bra for the first time? Is it the alcohol muddying my brain? But I've only taken a few sips. Is this what the rest of the eighteen dollars paid for? You didn't pay for the drink, but the hallucinations?
With superhuman effort, I grit my teeth and try my best to keep my head level.