Starving artist Felicia Dare hates rich men. As far as she's concerned, they're all absent, philandering jerks who care more about money than people. And she should know. Her own father is a millionaire.
Or was. When he shows up on her doorstep and tells her he blew the GDP of Africa on bad investments and failed businesses, Felicia knows he's getting what he deserves. Except that's not all: her mother is sick, and he can't afford the payments for her treatments. He has a backer to save his company, but there's one catch: Felicia must marry him!
A modern woman, Felicia balks at the implication that her hand can be bought, and she sets out to give this backer a piece of her mind. But there's more to Anton Waters than money and power, and when they come face to face, Felicia realizes that saying no to his proposal may be harder than she thought!
My face burned. “Wh—what? You've been... checking up on me?”
The barest expression of confusion flitted across his face, as though he could not comprehend why I would ask such a question. “Of course,” he said. “If we are to wed, I should know the sort of person I will be marrying.”
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. What else did he know? What was he not telling me?
Anton Waters could see right through me. He knew everything.
He knew it, too. I could see it in his eyes as he stood lazily and walked toward me.
“Of course, you would have all the time in the world to work on your artwork, as well. No more working as a bartender. No more taking gifts from your mother. No more shoving your creations down a flight of stairs because you have to move and can't afford to take the big pieces with you.”
My chest constricted. That had only happened once. But it had hurt. Oh, it had hurt.
He drew closer and closer and I backed up until I hit the floor to ceiling window behind me and flattened myself against the glass.
He reached out, running a finger over my cheek, down my throat, down between the valley of my breasts.
“There are a few small clauses in the contract that I thought you might find... distasteful,” he said. His voice had taken an almost dreamy quality, but I could barely hear him over the roar of blood in my head. “But given how much you want me, I don't think that will be a problem.”
How much you want me. Yes, I did. Oh god, more than I had ever wanted anyone. If kissed me, I was sure I would spontaneously combust.
“I don't want you,” I said. Even to my own ears, I could hear my throaty arousal.
His lashes fluttered. His finger traveled across my breast, and when it found my nipple, he rested his thumb and forefinger around it.
“What did you say?” he asked me.
I swallowed around my dry tongue. “I don't want you,” I told him, louder this time.
He pinched my nipple and twisted.
About Ava Lore
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Published September 5, 2012
Erotica, Literature & Fiction.