Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
I pull out my drawer and tug on a pair of black leggings, and then I open my closet and grab a random tee, hurriedly taking off my coat and throwing on the shirt in case Nate has the bright idea to bust in my bedroom door. Not that it would matter. He’s already seen me in nothing but my skimpiest under things.
I don’t bother to take my contacts out. As much as I don’t want to have this conversation with Nathaniel, I don’t want to waste the time to change back into my glasses and leave him out there alone doing God knows what. I snatch a hair tie off the dresser and pull my loose curls into a high ponytail. So much for all the effort I spent hours on getting ready for the night.
Taking hold of my bedroom doorknob, I take a deep breath, say a silent prayer that this doesn’t turn my life into a dumpster fire, and pull it open. I approach my living room cautiously, glancing around and not seeing Nate neither here nor the kitchen. I walk the short distance to my library, and that’s when I spot him, over by my bookcases and paging through a book with a red cover. When I step inside, I focus on the story in his hands and see it’s one of my favorite novels, Brie Learns the Art of Submission by Red Phoenix.
He glances up at me, closing the book and turning it over. It’s a huge novel, a trade size paperback, but his large hands make it look tiny. When he focuses his attention on the back cover, not saying a word, my nerves finally get the best of me, and I collapse on my oversized ottoman and wait as he reads what the story is about. And when he’s done, I take in the way he carefully replaces it exactly where I had it on its shelf.
He turns to face me, putting his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed, even though the air around me seems to be thick with tension. I wait, wondering what he’ll say, imagining the worst as I try to think of what he could want from me, how he’ll start off this conversation. So when he finally does, I jerk, sitting up straight at the sound of his deep, quiet voice. The first male voice I’ve ever heard inside my library, inside my home.
“Seems like a very educational book, Ms. Richards. Does there happen to be one on the art of dominance?” He asks this so casually, as if he’s asking for a book on bird watching, or if I can direct him to a cookbook he might enjoy, hell, anything other than the lifestyle I lead.
I fidget with the hem of my T-shirt in my lap, not knowing exactly how to respond.
“Um… I’ve… I’ve never really looked into it before. That’s not something I’d personally need to read up on, so you wouldn’t find it in my collection,” I tell him nervously.
I watch as he strolls over to my writing desk, takes hold of the back of the rolling chair, and pulls it from beneath the desk. I think he might take a seat there, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls it around until it’s in front of him, and then he pushes it to a stop right in front of me. He lowers himself into it, his big frame making it squeak as he settles his weight into it. His legs are spread on either side of mine, so when he uses his feet to wheel the chair closer to me, my legs are trapped between his and the ottoman I’m sitting on.
He’s so close, closer than he ever was at school, when I always have the circulation desk to hide behind. But not as close as he was half an hour ago, when he had me pressed against the building of the club.
I can’t take the tension anymore. I have to get this conversation going or I’m going to have a panic attack, and then there won’t be any talking whatsoever. “Nathaniel…, what is it you want from me? Please. Just… tell me what you’re going to do.”
When I meet his eyes, it’s not the look of a feline in this cat-and-mouse game we’ve always played like I expect. There’s a seriousness in his features, a barely whispered plea for help that’s there for one split second before he hides it behind a slow smile that raises goose bumps along my arms and neck.
“You know, I’ve always thought you’re pretty, Ms. Richards.” He lifts his hand and traces the line of my jaw, and I shiver. “And then I thought you were sexy as fuck when I saw you basically naked at the club and with your mask on.” His fingertip trails down the column of my throat before it hooks into the neckline of my tee. He pulls it out and lets go, and it snaps back into place. “But you, here, in comfortable clothes, your hair pulled back from your face for once instead of hiding behind it and without your glasses?” He reaches behind me and tugs gently on my ponytail. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” he rumbles huskily. And the way he says it, with the look on his face, for some reason, it comes across as sincere. It doesn’t sound like the taunting tone he uses when he teases me at school. His compliment is genuine, and I blink in surprise.