Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
I swallow. I know exactly just how bad he can be.
“I didn’t ask you because I booked the best preparation course in the state of New York,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d disapprove.”
I glance at the people who file past us, embarrassed that they’re witnessing our quiet dispute, but they’re absorbed in their own conversations. “It’s not that I disapprove.”
He searches my eyes. “Then what is it?”
“You know I can’t afford this, and you know how I feel about that.”
“Anya.” He threads his fingers through my hair and cups the back of my head. “I already made myself clear. What part of the fact that you’re my responsibility don’t you understand?”
“It feels wrong.”
“Wrong?” He chuckles. “Explain that to me.”
“Like I’m taking advantage.”
The look in those icy blue pools turns even more earnest. “Are you? Is that what happened this morning?”
“Is that what happened last night?”
Letting me go, he takes a step back. “What happened, happened. We’re not going to analyze or overthink it. You’re under my protection now, and I don’t take my responsibilities lightly. I want the best for you, and I can afford to pay for the best. That’s all there is to it. I don’t expect your gratitude or anything in return. If I give someone something, I don’t see it as an exploitation on their side. I take care of what’s mine, and I happen to enjoy taking care of you. Does that clear things up for you?”
Not nearly. I don’t understand his motives. I get why he’s so invested in my health. He needs me alive. He needs me in case the murder investigation produces evidence that may blow up in his face.
But why go to such extreme lengths?
Because booking the most exclusive prenatal class for his girlfriend is what the world expects Saverio to do. Because that’s just who he is.
And there’s my answer.
It’s not about me.
It’s about appearances.
The truth leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The envy that stabs into my gut feels a lot like the jealousy of last night. It’s petty and immature, but I can’t stop myself from being stupidly envious of the real girlfriends, of the women he loved and the wife he will love one day, of the woman he’ll bring here for the right reasons.
“Anya,” he says, reminding me that he’s waiting for my consent. For my understanding.
Yes, I get it. This is a stage act, a fake performance. I definitely don’t want it to be more. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I must be developing the infamous pregnancy porridge brain.
“Anya,” he says again, this time, more insistently.
“Yes.” Even as I give him that affirmation, something twists inside me. “I understand perfectly.”
Instead of making him happy, my words put a frown on his face.
Before I can ponder the reason for that, a woman sticks her head around the jamb of the adjoining door and says, “We’re about to start, guys. Come grab your place in the hall.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Saverio
“What’s up with you?” Dante asks when I answer the doorbell on Saturday morning.
I turn for the kitchen, leaving him to let himself in. “Why do you think anything is up?”
“I know that look on your face.”
The door shuts with a bang before his footsteps fall on the floor behind me.
I grit my teeth. Didn’t anyone teach him how to close a fucking door? Slamming them is one of my pet peeves.
In the kitchen, I head straight for the coffee machine. The strenuous run this morning didn’t relieve my frustration. Neither did the cold shower or the hand job. I dressed in a sweater and jeans instead of my usual office attire, thinking I could take Anya somewhere today. A movie, maybe. Or lunch. We need to be seen together more in public.
I raise the carafe. “Coffee?”
“Please,” he says, slipping onto a bar stool by the island counter.
“I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“Fuck, bro. What’s eating your ass? I’m sorry to say this, but Giorgio is right, and you know how seldom I agree with him. You need to get laid. Aren’t you getting any? From the way you’re stomping around like a bear with a sore head, the only thing you seem to be getting is a cold shoulder. Did you and Anya have a fight?”
“Our private life is none of your fucking business,” I grumble as I pour a mug and take a sip.
The brew turned bitter. I empty the carafe in the drain, rinse it, and start a fresh pot.
Abstaining from fucking Anya takes every shred of my self-control and then some. Only the fact that my need for her to recover is bigger than the need to bury my cock in her soft, tight heat prevents me from doing exactly that. She must be sore after all that rough fucking. The women at the club often told me I was too big, and they didn’t just say that because I paid them double their rates. They uttered it in strained voices with their faces pulled into masks of discomfort as I pounded into them. No hooker acts that well, not even the ones who know how to fake an orgasm that’ll make a bloke with a pencil dick believe he’s the hottest thing under the sun.