Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Kiss me,” he says, thrusting again, hands cupping my ass.
“You want a kiss?” I ask, taking another hard thrust, my clit rubbing against him, my body doing exactly what he said. Wanting him. Wanting to belong to him.
“A bloody kiss. I’ll give you that,” he says. “Do your worst.”
I sink my teeth into his lower lip and taste the copper of blood. His thrusts come faster and I’m not sure it’s his moan or my own as I suck on his lip and bleed him.
When I come, I cling tight to him, arms on his shoulders, legs locked around his hips. He bounces me on his cock, spearing me again and again, growing thicker. I pant my release, his name on my lips, my body throbbing, vision blurring, nipples tight and too sensitive against my shirt, every sensation heightened. When he comes, I hear my name on his breath, feel the press of his chest against mine as he pins me to the wall and stills. Our eyes are locked, lip bloody, each of us hating the other. Me with a secret vow to destroy him. To take from him all he plans to take from me. I do have some power over him.
Sex.
He wants me as much as I want him. I will use that to bring Jericho St. James to his knees.
3
Jericho
The jet to Austria leaves in just over an hour but it gives me enough time to drop in on the Bishops. Even though our properties back up to one another, it’s a fifteen-minute drive around to their front entrance. The gate opens as we pull up. Carlton must be expecting me.
“Want me to come in with you, boss?” Dex asks when we pull up to the double front doors.
“No. I’ll just be a minute.”
He nods.
I take in the state of the place. The Bishop house was once grand. I have the blueprints at home. Know the nooks and crannies. I wonder if Carlton Bishop has ever bothered to study them. If he knows the weak points of the wall between our properties.
The gardens are unkempt. Leaves need to be swept, bushes trimmed. The roses that have crept over the wall need to be cut back, dead flowers cleared. I know financially Bishop is hurting. He may have the house and the properties, but he isn’t liquid. He needs to sell off some of his land. The apartment in Paris he’d purchased for his wife. He needs cash.
I step out of the Rolls Royce once it comes to a stop, adjust my jacket, and look up at the façade of the stone mansion. It’s built much like ours with its French chateau design, large windows, ornate wooden shutters. If you don’t look too closely, you won’t notice how the paint is peeling here or there, how a shutter is hanging just off center.
The door opens before I reach it but it’s not who I’m expecting. Not a butler or housekeeper. Not even Carlton Bishop. No. It’s his cousin, Julia.
She stops with her hand on the doorknob. No smile on her face today. She’s wearing a pair of running pants and sports bra that leaves her stomach exposed. She’s toned and tanned like she works on it.
“Ms. Bishop,” I say as I step up the stone stairs toward the door.
“Mr. St. James,” she says, her gaze moving over my shoulders and chest, then back up to my eyes. “I was just about to go on a run when I saw you drive up,” she says.
I get the feeling she wasn’t about to go on a run at all. That her being here, being the one to open the door, is a calculated move.
She steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. I do. Her breasts brush against my arm. I want to say it’s because the entry isn’t wide enough to accommodate us both, but something tells me even that is calculated.
She closes the door and a silence descends over the large house. From here I can see the stairs curving to the floor above, the living room, and dining room. It’s so quiet I wonder if there’s anyone else in the house.
I turn to her. She’s about the same height as Isabelle and when she looks up at me with the pale blue eyes of most of the Bishops, I notice she’s wearing full makeup to go for her run. Heavy eyeliner, lipstick, perfume, the works.
She smiles but stands just a little closer than would be appropriate. I don’t move as she raises her arms, stomach muscles flexing. She pulls her long blonde hair into a ponytail at the top of her head. She works it into an elastic with long, polished fingernails combing through it, then drags her hand slowly over the length of it to set it over her shoulder.