Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
The bath is like something from a homestyle magazine, with its rolling top and brass gothic-style legs standing on dark wooden floorboards. It’s quaint. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life before.
Dabbing at my throbbing place, I wince at how sore it now feels, bruised, and stretched from the movement of Clint’s masculine body inside mine. It’s like he is still there. His presence and scent linger. The way he made me feel, too.
He is the biggest man I have ever been with. Only the second so I don’t have a lot to compare him to. How am I going to manage three of them? What if they’re all as big and strong as Clint is? I splash my face with water from the cold tap. All I can do now is follow the rules, keep my head down and remember why I am here.
Maverick isn’t so bad. He’s quite funny. The other two may be stern in ways, but compared to what I’m used to, I don’t feel in danger. But I can’t be complacent. To the outside world, my dad came across as relatively normal. People laughed with him. If they knew what he was really like behind closed doors, they wouldn’t want to pass him on the street.
Reaching for the white towel, I dab my face and then between my legs, allowing the softness to brush over my still-sensitive flesh. I sidestep to the pale pink rug next to the bathtub, and my feet sink into the plush softness. Another tinge of guilt creeps over me.
I want to unpack but know that getting down to the kitchen is my next duty, and I want to ensure that I do nothing to rile any of these men. Maverick brought my bag in here after I changed into the wedding dress. I empty the bag’s contents onto the bed, reaching for clean underwear, another plain t-shirt, and loose pants. I’m careful not to crease the photo and place the book shielding it into the bedside cabinet. I’ll make sure that it’s the last thing I set my eyes on before I go to sleep tonight. Hastily, I throw on my chosen outfit, and as I reach for the door handle, I whisper into the silence. “I won’t forget you, Molly.”
Emerging onto the landing, I quietly shut my door and pad along the floorboards towards the top of the staircase. To my left is a window out onto the rear paddocks, framed with yellowing sheers. To my right stands a grandfather clock, beating its tick-tock calmly and confidently. The glossy Maplewood needs a polish, as do the framed portraits that line the stairs. Generations of smiles on well-dressed people stare out at me as I cling to the handrail. Each step down threatens to throw me off balance as my heart rate intensifies, my pulse pounding in my ears. I almost miss the bottom step entirely and fall straight into Maverick.
“Shit, sorry!”
“Excuse you, ma’am!”
“Sorry.”
“Do you say sorry for everything?” His smile is wide and white, my eyes are transfixed, and it strikes me that actually I do. Sometimes I feel sorry for existing.
“I’m going to take a look around the kitchen, I want to… to fix dinner.”
“Yeah, I bet you worked up quite an appetite up there. Clint’s a mess.”
I blush at his crassness and want to dissolve from his gaze. He winks and places one hand on my left shoulder. It’s warm and huge, his strength obvious in the gesture.
Strength that could hurt me, use me, break me.
He brushes his thumb over my bruised cheek and lifts my chin, searching my face with a questioning look. “What the—”
“Maverick! For Christ’s sake!” Jesse’s voice suddenly booms from another room, sending my heart haywire. “You can’t help yourself, can you? Let her get on with it.”
Maverick mutters something under his breath that I don’t quite catch before he shakes his head. I carry on to the kitchen, not wanting to add to Jesse’s ire. The annoyance in his voice spikes adrenaline through me, with an accompanying burst of frantic heartbeats.
The vastness of the kitchen is striking without the three men filling it with their bulk. There’s nothing cluttering the sideboards; the only thing on the windowsill is an empty vase. In the center of the room is what looks like an antique table, in good condition despite signs of heavy use. Without piles of soiled pans and dishes, I’m free to explore the pantry and cupboards. The huge refrigerator hums in the corner, and it’s my first stop. The door is heavy, and as it swings open, the smell of antiseptic wafts out. It’s clean and organized. The dairy on the top shelf consists of a range of cheeses and spreads, as well as a few tubs of sweetened yogurt, cream, and some sticks of butter. The middle shelf is packed with different cuts of meat, both raw and cooked, separated appropriately, and the bottom shelf has vegetables at different stages of freshness, right down to the wilting spinach leaves, which have seen better days. Inside the door is fresh milk and some orange juice, the kind with bits in. It’s nothing like the refrigerator at home.