Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
If Lucas Moreau… if he were to raise my skirt the way Martin had, and he saw these unexciting panties, would he decide I wasn’t worth his time and money?
I started to chew on my lip as I gazed at my reflection. I barely noticed as my hand drifted unconsciously down my body. What would Lucas think if he saw me like this? If he put his hands on my half naked body, how would it feel?
Possessive. Definitely possessive. Dangerous, too?
Would those icy blue eyes darken with desire as they roamed over my curves? Would his strong hands grip my hips, pulling me roughly against him?
Almost without my realizing it, my fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my plain gray panties. A soft gasp escaped my lips as I imagined strong hands raising my skirt, blue eyes flashing with lust and dominance. In my mind, Lucas growled low in his throat, aroused by my innocent underwear rather than disappointed. “Such a naughty girl,” fantasy Lucas murmured, “hiding this sweet little cunt under these boring panties. I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”
My fingers found the nub in its complex hood, the still-unfamiliar smoothness there bringing a little hitch in my inhaling breath. I circled my clit slowly, again helplessly picturing Lucas bending me over, his large hand coming down in a stinging slap on my bare bottom. Heat gathered below my tummy as I imagined him taking what he wanted, claiming me as his…
With a start, I yanked my hand away, mortified at where my thoughts had wandered. What was wrong with me? This wasn’t like me at all.
Except for last night. I watched my reflection purse her lips and twist them to the side in what I meant as a dismissive gesture, as if to tell myself that one night’s weakness hadn’t changed me on such a fundamental level.
I shook my head to clear the forbidden thoughts and I hurried to put on the little black dress I’d splurged on earlier. The soft fabric clung to my curves in a way that made me feel equal parts daring and nervous.
With trembling fingers, I applied a light dusting of powder to my cheeks, a swipe of mascara to my lashes, and a hint of rosy gloss to my lips. I’d never been one for heavy makeup, preferring a natural look. But tonight, I found myself wishing I had more skills with cosmetics. Maybe then I could transform myself into the kind of glamorous woman who belonged on the arm of an international football star.
I gazed at my reflection critically, fussing with a wayward strand of hair. The girl looking back at me seemed both familiar and strange—wide green eyes filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation, cheeks flushed with nervous anticipation. Was I really going through with this?
Before I could second-guess myself further, my phone buzzed with a message. An unknown number—the limo driver, I gathered, telling me he had arrived. My heart leapt into my throat as I grabbed my small clutch purse and took one last glance in the mirror. Not perfect, but it would have to do.
The ancient wooden stairs creaked under my heels as I made my way down from the fifth-floor walkup. Each step felt huge, as if I was descending into a new chapter of my life. The warm evening air felt soothing on my bare arms as I stepped out onto the narrow cobblestone street.
There it was—a sleek black limousine that looked utterly out of place among the quaint cafés and flower shops of my quiet neighborhood. My pulse quickened as the uniformed driver stepped out and walked around to open the passenger door for me.
As the driver revealed the interior of the car, I half-expected to see Lucas Moreau waiting inside, his soft blue eyes meeting mine. But the backseat was empty, plush leather gleaming in the soft lighting. I slid in, the supple surface cool against my bare legs. As the door thunked shut, I felt suddenly small and alone in the cavernous space.
The limo glided away from the curb, whisper-quiet. I gazed out the tinted windows as we wound through the narrow streets of the Quartier Latin. The early evening light bathed everything in a golden glow, transforming the familiar cafés and shops into something dreamlike and ethereal.
As we emerged onto the wider boulevards, a surreal feeling washed over me. Was this really happening? Me, Alice Morgan, aspiring historian, being whisked away in a limousine to meet one of the most famous athletes in the world? I felt like a character in a novel—perhaps one of Proust’s kept mistresses in In Search of Lost Time, off to a clandestine rendezvous with her wealthy lover.
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Is that what I was becoming? A glorified mistress, selling myself for the chance to pursue my academic dreams?