Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
This was no joking matter.
He stepped up toward me, put both of his hands on my arms, and then leaned in and kissed me. I closed my eyes, as I felt his lips brush across my forehead. It felt nice. It felt good. Again, this wasn’t helping me to set him free. In this moment, I didn’t want to set him free. I wanted to keep him and never let him go.
I stared at him, not sure what to do or say.
He stroked my cheek, and then he spun on his heel and left.
Was there even a chance that he could love me? I didn’t want to be one of those women who forced a man to love her. Why did Ivan have to do this to me?
I stripped out of my clothes and quickly stepped beneath the hot spray of water, loving the feel of it as it washed over my skin. Closing my eyes, I allowed it to completely soak me, and tilted my head back. The spray, at first, felt almost biting, but slowly my skin stopped feeling so tender, and I got accustomed to the feel of it.
I opened my eyes, and stared across at the tiled wall. I kept seeing Peter last night. How he took care of me. The way he held my hips and I slid my hands down to touch where he had last night. I couldn’t feel his grip, even though I wanted to. So, instead, I took a deep breath and just allowed myself to breathe. That was all I could do.
Would it be so wrong of me to stay with a man who didn’t love me?
Pushing those thoughts and that damn choice to the back of my mind, I instead focused on getting washed. Peter was making food, and I didn’t want it to spoil or get cold. With my hair washed, I soaped up a sponge and ran it all over my body. Letting the suds rinse off, I turned the shower off, stepped out, and wrapped my body in a towel, as well as my hair.
Next step, brushing my teeth, because my breath smelled so bad. I needed to wash the taste of that whiskey out of my mouth.
Once my teeth were done, I swilled my mouth with some mouthwash, and then I cleaned up my mess and went straight to the bedroom. I still found it hard to call it my bedroom, or our bedroom. In my mind, it was still Peter’s bedroom, even though my stuff had been moved into the space available, and we’d not really talked about it going back.
So, for now, this was “our bedroom.” I didn’t know why I loved that title, but I did.
I was totally swaying toward large, oversized sweats, but instead, I grabbed a dress. I was going to make an effort. I wasn’t sure if Peter was staying with me, or if he’d find some reason to be as far away from me as possible. Not that I could blame him, because I pretty much sucked last night.
I’d become my mother, only caring about my own needs when it came to forgetting my troubles, and that was never going to happen again. If the uncontrolled vomiting wasn’t a sign, then certainly the splitting headache and general bad taste I had in my mouth would help me decide.
Once I had dressed in a light, pastel-blue summer dress with a floral design, I headed out to the delicious smell of bacon and coffee.
Peter was standing at the kitchen stove. He had his business suit on, apart from the main jacket. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing off the many tattoos he had.
“What’s it like to get a tattoo?” I asked.
I had looked at them many times, but the thought of having a needle stabbing my flesh was just a little more painful that I could bear. Also, where would I have found a tattoo artist willing to ink me? My father had a lot more control on me than I had even realized. It was kind of shocking.
“The same as any tattoo. You know what you want, he or she does it. You pay. That’s pretty much it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“I have a higher pain threshold, so it didn’t bother me, which is why I’ve got quite a few of them.”
“Why did you get them originally?” I asked.
Peter paused and I saw it in the way his elbow seemed to go completely still. He glanced over his shoulder toward me.
“If you must know, it was to hide the scars I’d gotten because of my dad’s … games.”
He’d told me what his father had done.
I had some scars from the beatings my father had given me. Reminders of what he’d done, and that I had survived.
“Do you think the person you used would be willing to … do me?” I frowned. “I mean, you know, give me a tattoo?” I felt my cheeks heating.