Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
My jaw drops. In all our time together, he has never spoken to me like that before. “Conlan, you’re crossing a line.”
“Good. Let’s cross the line together. You want to fuck me.”
“Absolutely not. Are you kidding? Did you just not hear me rant about how awful you are?”
“I recall you saying more than once how you find me attractive.”
“I did not,” I say though I’m pretty sure I did. The bastard.
“You want to fuck me. Yes, maybe I’m shallow and selfish, but you’re curious. You want to know why these girls keep coming back, even knowing what I’m like. You want to understand what I’m doing to get them so addicted, don’t you? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not my jokes, though they’re great.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you.”
But maybe I do. He’s not wrong. I’ve wondered that exact thing a hundred times since I started working for him. He’s got a reputation—everyone knows he’s a fuckboy.
And yet girls keep coming back. They keep throwing themselves at him.
It can’t be his money, there are plenty of rich man in Los Angeles.
Is he really that good at sex?
Some sick part of me wants to find out.
“You do,” he says. “You want to fuck me. You’ve wanted to fuck me since we first met, even if you find me totally repellant. And you know what? I find you absolutely infuriating, and I want to fuck you too.”
I shake my head rapidly, moving backwards. “No, no, no, that’s not happening. We’re not getting married, and we’re absolutely not going to fuck.”
“Take off your robe.”
“Conlan!”
“Drop it. Go ahead, push it open, take it off. Let me see you. Let me come over there, get on my knees, and kiss you between your legs until you scream. Let’s get this out of our system.”
“You’re insane. How about you take off your clothes if you’re so desperate?”
“Okay.” He starts to unbutton his shirt.
“Stop!” I pull my robe tighter, my heart racing. Do I really want him to stop? Some voice in my head’s telling me to do what he’s saying. There’s a part of me that knows if I do this, if I sleep with him right here and now, it’ll ruin any marriage plans he might have. It’ll make things too complicated.
But I’m terrified I’ll like it too much.
Because I do want this. I need him in a way that terrifies me.
It’s that look he gives me, the one he’s giving me now, that wild hunger.
“Marry me,” he says, voice husky. “Despite everything, even though you’re convinced that you hate me right now, you defended me back in that office. You spoke up when you didn’t have to. You got involved.”
I relax slightly, but I still hold the top of my robe closed. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re right, but you did anyway. Why would you defend someone you hate so much?”
He’s got a very good point. “I knew you couldn’t say anything in front of Adler, and I just, I hated the way Leyland was talking to you.”
“You’re right, I couldn’t say anything. So you spoke for me.” He comes a step closer, his expression so intense I’m afraid I might start panting. “You defended me when I couldn’t defend myself, Isabel, and I am very grateful that you did. Marry me.”
I close my eyes. I shake my head. Why do I feel like my heart might explode? Like my stomach might tingle to pieces with all the butterflies going crazy inside of it.
He’s wrong, I do hate him.
Conlan’s a spoiled asshole with every advantage in the world, and all he does is squander his privilege. He’s selfish, conceited, cocky, and frustrating as hell.
Yes, he’s gorgeous. Yes, I want to have sex with him, but that’s purely physical.
I don’t like Conlan Costa.
So why did I defend him?
“I can’t,” I say but I feel myself weakening. “It’s too complicated. You’re asking a lot.”
“I know I am. I’ll make you a deal. Give me one more year of yourself, one year where you pretend to be my wife and we make this whole General Leyland issue disappear. When it’s over, we’ll divorce, and I’ll make sure you’re rich for the rest of your life. Fifty million over ten years, if you want a number. Do this for me and I swear, I’ll take care of you.”
His expression’s soft now. I chew on my lip, seriously freaking out. That’s more money than I ever dreamed I’d have in my life, and he’s offering to give it to me for one single year of being his fake wife. It’s too much—but it’s also too tempting.
“I want twenty-five million up front,” I blurt out. “Then the other twenty-five after we divorce. No spreading it out.”
He tilts his head. “If that’s what you want.”
“I want this in writing.”
“I’ll have my lawyers draw up a prenuptial agreement.”