Titan's Addiction (Wall Street Titan Book 2) by Anna Zaires & Dima Zales

Author:Anna Zaires & Dima Zales [Zaires, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Mozaika Publications
Published: 2020-02-25T00:00:00+00:00

The ride to Midtown from Marcus’s place in Tribeca takes about twenty minutes, and the entire time, I’m doing breathing exercises to try to calm myself. I hate feeling so anxious and insecure; it reminds me of when I was an awkward teen trying to adjust to my changing body and hair that never wanted to behave. It also reminds me of how I felt before my first real date with Marcus. Thankfully, I’m no longer insecure around him—there’s nothing like a man sexing you up three times a day to assure a woman of her attractiveness—but I’m still acutely cognizant that I’m not what Marcus originally wanted.

Geoffrey could iron and de-hair my clothes from now ’till eternity, and I still wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to someone like Emmeline.

To my relief, the breathing exercises help, and by the time we pull up to a fancy hotel on Park Avenue, I’m calm enough to make my way through the gilded lobby toward the restaurant in the back without stumbling over my feet. I’m about five minutes early, but everybody’s already seated at the round table in the semi-private nook the hostess leads me to. Two bottles of wine, red and white, are sitting in the middle of the table, and everyone’s glasses are already filled. Only one empty chair remains, and it’s next to Marcus, whose gaze goes to me as soon as I walk in.

“There you are,” he says, standing up to greet me, and as he clasps my hands in a strong, warm grasp and bends to brush a kiss over my cheek, I feel more of my nervousness ebbing away.

“Would you like something to drink, ma’am?” the waiter asks as I sit down in the chair Marcus pulls out for me. “Perhaps some wine? Mr. Carelli has ordered an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Grigio for the table, but we also have a wide selection of—”

“The Pinot Grigio is perfect, thank you.” I normally drink only water, but a little wine might be just the thing today. Now that I’m seated and everyone’s staring at me, my heartbeat is speeding up again.

God, I hope I don’t have a piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth—or some cat hair somewhere.

“Everyone, this is Emma Walsh,” Marcus announces, surveying our dinner companions like a monarch would his subjects, and then he goes around the table introducing each person—or rather, each man, as I’m the only woman present.

To my left is Ashton Vancroft, the fitness empire mogul whom Marcus introduces as “a good friend from business school.” Unlike everyone else at the table, he’s dressed casually, in jeans and a cream-colored cashmere sweater that fits his muscled torso like a glove. His sun-streaked hair is on the longish side, down past his ears, and to my slightly awed eyes, he looks like a cross between Brad Pitt in Troy and Chris Hemsworth in Thor. Shaking my hand, he grins, flashing dazzling white teeth, and says in a smooth, deep voice that makes me think of melted caramel, “Pleasure to meet you, Emma.

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