Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
I hang up and stare at the passing scenery, but all I can see is Isla watching me from across the room last night. Look but don’t touch, her eyes seemed to say. Touch but don’t tell. You can hold, her gaze promised, but you’ll never possess.
In the window, my reflection comes into focus as my phone buzzes with a text. Hope springs as I reach into my jacket pocket. A hope that doesn’t last as I glance down and note the number. Somehow, I’ve memorized her phone number despite her not ever contacting me. Or I her.
I miss you, reads the text. It’s been a while.
I stare at the accompanying image with cold indifference. Tits. Skin. Red lingerie. A cascade of dark hair. But no face, rightly so. Not that revenge porn has ever been a hobby of mine.
It’s been a while.
I delete the text without a second thought.
It could be from any number of women; names and faces I no longer recall because I haven’t fucked anyone but Isla since Alexander’s fateful birthday. Isla’s birthday too, of course. How odd that we reconnected on the same date. Reconnected, not rekindled as I’d hoped. I’d been so certain I could make her understand. I’ve longed to explain, longed for her forgiveness, for her absolution, but every snatched moment, every stolen half night together seems to push her farther away.
Oh, she wants me. She wants me so badly she can’t help herself, but she doesn’t want to talk—really talk. She wants nothing from me but the way I fuck.
And because I can’t help myself, I give her exactly what she wants.
Because I am a fool in love.
I glance down at the phone in my lax hand, my expression twisting as I consider sending her a modern-day love note. The same kind of “I miss you” message as I’d just received. How would she react to a screenful of cock, hard and straining in my hand? Would she be incensed? Inflamed? Would it prompt her to call me, even just to shout?
Fuck. I scrub a hand across my jaw at such ridiculousness. Lady Isla Dalforth would not deign to answer a cock shot. She probably wouldn’t answer a sonnet from me.
“Straight home, sir?”
I glance up at my driver’s voice. Home to think more about this spell she’s cast on me? Home to dissect the night and wonder how I might entice her to give me a chance.
“No. To Thornbeck,” I answer almost automatically.
The mirror reflects the man’s surprise, though he’s quick to conceal it. No one dares to outwardly question me. No one but that old bastard Sergei. Saturday nights are the busiest of the week at the lifestyle club I no longer use but always have use for. Like any place of fun—bar, nightclub, den of debauchery—the morning after the night before is always a little grim. The same goes for Thornbeck Hall when Sunday mornings reek of sex and sweat, booze and lube. But I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, so I’ll go to the club to work instead.
My phone buzzes a second time, this time without the same spring of hope.
Fedorov meeting confirmed, comes Sergei’s advice. He’s shitting his pants because he does not have money together. Was bleating like fat hairy sheep about some fucking golf club.
That’s not my problem, I reply. There’s little use in pointing out sheep are woolly not hairy.
You know about this stupid game? I want to know what is best type of club.
He means a club to club, not to play. Though, in a way, he will be playing. Making a point, I suppose. Sergei is not so subtle.
You need a driver.
Why? I have car and license? And new spectacles for nighttime driving.
I sigh and shake my head. The club you want is called a driver. A titanium one would be best.
Spasibo. Thanks.
To use a modern business model, I am the CEO of a criminal organization. Which would make Fedorov one of my heads of department. As such, he is accountable for a number of business-related concerns. Workforce training, development, and management, of course. He has logistics to manage, product placement to control, and productivity to maintain. There are sales to drive and debts to manage because profit is all. And that’s why the man is shitting himself. He owes me money, and I’m not a patient man.
Except when it comes to Isla. Fifteen years and counting.
A fucking golf club. Does he think I’m—
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight like pins, my thoughts beginning to slide and move around like pieces on a chess board.
“Change of plans,” I grate out over the roar in my chest. My hand curls around the back of the driver’s seat as I lurch forward. “Not Thornbeck. Home.”
I notice the tremor in my hand as I lean back and turn over my phone.