Unbecoming of a man

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I'm still thinking about Artemisia Stark.

It's been fifteen excruciatingly long hours since I left her exquisite presence and I have not stopped thinking about her since. Throughout the entire day I have been replaying the image of her bent over her desk, her mass of pitch black waves sprawled against the naked olive skin of her back. I'm not sure why, but I envision her to have a sprinkling of freckles marking it, all the way down her glorious ass – the silver suit she was wearing did little to hide it – to the tips of her provocative kitten heels.


This is unbecoming of a man of my stature. I was forced to sit through a Skype call with prospective clients from New York with a hard-on that would put Thors hammer to shame. Christ, what kind of voodoo has that woman done on me? I'm still thinking about her. Fifteen hours later. It usually takes me less than fifteen minutes to lose interest in anyone.

Maybe it has something to do with her frustratingly controlling demeanour that almost makes me want to be reprimanded by her. Maybe it has something to do with the endearingly confident way she holds herself, refusing to let her chin face anywhere but up. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that despite the aforementioned confidence, I can sense a tremor of vulnerability in those dark, bambi shaped eyes of hers. Maybe it has some- holy shit, I'm still thinking about that uptight freak.

And a freak she probably is – a lady in the streets, right? It would only be fair.

The soft padding of footsteps awakens me from my thoughts.

"Jesus, Alex, it's almost three in the morning! Why are you still awake?"

It's my brother, Elijah. He will be staying with me for the next week, taking a break from playing professional Rugby in Miami. As welcome as his impromptu visits are, it's never easy to adjust to having someone else in the bachelor pad I've accustomed myself to living in alone. I like my space – unless Artemisia Stark wanted to share it. Then maybe I wouldn't mind.
The idea of her strolling in here, clad in nothing but a white shirt of mine – preferably one I've worn that very day – a suggestive smirk playing on those full pink lips of hers as she crosses the expanse of my lounge into island of the kitchen until –

"Alex?" Eljahs voice plagues my fantasy so rapidly I have to shake my head to help myself return to reality.

"Sorry, I lost you for a second there. It's been a long day." Ignoring my older brothers concerned eyebrow raise, I take a swig of the bourbon in my glass, and sigh with the utmost of content. It tastes like heaven.

I bet Artemisia tastes like heaven.

"I can tell, you were staring at me like I just grew double d's and a kim kardashian sized ass."

If it wasn't aged bourbon in my glass, I would throw it at Elijah Ivanov right this very moment. Because, in this very moment, all I want to do is be left alone with an intoxicating drink and the even more intoxicating image of my glorious looking business partner, naked.

"Who is she?" Elijah clearly hasn't registered the note of dismissal I have left in the air, and instead, he takes a seat on the bar stool across from me.

Why did I agree to let him stay here again? He might be the only member of my family I have remote affections for, but in all honesty, he is a pain in the fucking ass.

I should have put him in a hotel.

"Go on, stop avoiding my gaze like I'm Medusa. Anytime a guy acts this weird, almost always there is a vagina involved." He smirks as I skirt his inquisitive eyes again. They are blue, like his mothers' - the only thing he has left in her memory.

"I'm not one of your rugby 'bro's', Eli. I'm a CEO with a lot more on my mind than pussy."

Elijah scoffs in response.

"Oh please, little bro, you so have a crush."

A crush? This isn't high school, and I don't have a crush on Artemisia Stark.

I don't just have a crush on Artemisia Stark.

God, I'm obsessed with the woman. Obsessed with her airs and presence, obsessed with the way she walks and talks, the way she breathes, obsessed with the idea of her beneath me in so many more ways than one.

When I want something, I always get it.

And I don't just want Artemisia Stark.

I need her.

(A/N: Hey guys - remember me? God, i haven't updated in so freaking long i know! I've been super busy this xmas with dance events, but i finally found some free time to write. I had a bit of a writers block with this book, i just wrote a chapter and couldn't decide where to take it. Now i finally know where it's going and i couldn't be happier to take you all along with me on this journey.
Most of you will probably be faithful readers of lost faith (see what i did there) 😜 but like i've said before this isn't a harry fiction. Unless you imagine Alexander to look like Harry, which i don't. I'm not quite sure who i envision Alexander to be. Someone tall, olive, and ridiculously hot with super dark features.  Sound like anyone familiar?
I am so excited about this book, but more importantly i'm so excited to hear what you guys think. This book is being written for publication (hopefully if my publishers like the finished version) but that won't happen until i finish posting it on wattpad. Wattpad for me is like an editing tool - my readers are my editors. You guys give me feedback, tell me what you hate and love, i go away and edit those changes and it shapes my book into something incredible because it resonates the voice of the people.
Sorry, i don't mean to go all martin luther king on your asses, but i want you to know how much i value every one of your opinions. The support on Lost Faith has been more than i could have ever hoped for, and i hope you guys love this book just as much!)

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