Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
My face scrunches up in disbelief. This fucker undoubtedly isn’t used to being shot down by a woman. “No. And if you ask again, I’ll throw this thick book at your fucking face,” I say, grabbing the closest book off his shelf. I hide my intrigue at the heavy tome of bondage instructions. I raise it as if to throw it at him.
“One date, and I’ll provide you with a different job.”
I scoff. “What, as your sex bunny or something? Hard pass.”
He smirks. “Oh, you’ll do that for free. I will never pay you to have sex with me.”
“I don’t want to have sex with you!” I remind him.
He kicks up an arrogant smile. “Sure you don’t. You could work behind the bar.”
“I suck at pouring drinks!” I yell because all I want to do is wring this unreasonable fucker’s neck. This man is as insufferable as I pegged him from the moment I met him. I had a fucking lapse in judgment in the back seat of his car, and now I’m paying for it.
This asshole thinks he can throw around money and own people. I’d come to terms with working for him, but I won’t let him own me.
“You can work in my office, and I’ll pay you double what you make on the floor.”
I hesitate to throw the book. I want to because, again, the dickhead thinks he can buy me out. But I start doing quick math in my head as to how much I could earn, how it could set Bentley and me up if I could bear with it for even six months. Dancing wasn’t meant to be a permanent thing, but if I agree, it’d be working closely with the devil himself.
“Why are you doing this? Is it because I told you no? No offense, fucker, but I don’t know if you’ll stick to your word considering how crazy you’re acting right now.”
He arches a perfect eyebrow. “I’m the one being labeled crazy right now?” He scans the room with his gaze, then gives a pointed look to the book I’m holding in the air, ready to throw at him.
Okay.
Good point.
I lower the book.
“One thing you can trust me on is my word. Always. Despite how much you think of me as an asshole, I’ll never jeopardize your safety or force myself on you. This is a legitimate deal.”
I roll my eyes. “But I have to go on a date with you?” That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Has this man ever actually been on a date before? I imagine he gets the luxury of skipping even the name exchange before women are on their backs for him.
“A date doesn’t equate to sex. But preferably, will end with it.”
“I’m not sleeping with you,” I reiterate. “Why are you offering this? It’s unprofessional.”
I don’t understand Dutton Taylor. There is no rhyme or reason to him, and that sharp intellect is always running some type of scheme in the background. What could he ever want from me to make him go so far?
“Because I have an issue with other men touching you. It would appear I don’t think rationally when you’re on the floor, and I find it awfully distracting. I don’t want it to jeopardize my business if I accidentally kill one of my clients, so this seems like the most practical approach.” His words are straightforward, his tone emotionless.
I’m shocked by his honesty, and all I can say to derail the intensity of that possessive statement is, “They don’t touch me; I touch them.”
His face glazes over with a lustful expression. “Hmm. I suppose you did touch me when you gave me that private dance, and I don’t usually let that happen. But I touched you more that night in the back seat of my car,” he says, pushing off the edge of the desk and stepping closer. “And I want to touch you again. You might be used to being in control out there with your clients, but I promise you, you’re very much out of your depth if you think you can control me and my desires.”
His intense aura is stifling, but I refuse to look away as he picks up a piece of my curled hair. This guy is giving me whiplash between his possessive asshole and charismatic playboy personas.
“You don’t fuck those you work with,” I point out as I slowly push away his hand.
“I don’t fuck the girls who dance,” he clarifies. “And you no longer dance.”
I bite my bottom lip, trying to consider my choices, but it all feels too rushed right now. And I still need to decide whether it’s worth the hassle of dealing with this asshole. Then again, earning double what I’m earning now is not an opportunity a single mother is given every day.