Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“I see.” He seems to consider it. “Her game doesn’t matter now because I fired her last night.”
He did? But… “Why?”
“We spent a couple of nights together after I employed her. It was just a fling. I thought she was over it. I was wrong.” His smile is grim. “You were right when you said she has feelings for me.”
Good, because I really don’t want her to come back here. I look at my hands. “I asked her to return her key.”
“I’ll make sure I get it.” Walking to the sofa, he stops next to me. A fire burns in his eyes. “It’s hard for me, not touching you.”
I swallow.
“I know you’re not well,” he says, going down on his haunches and sliding a hand through my hair, “but when you’re healthy again, I won’t be so patient.”
The darkness I got used to is still present in his silver stare. It still rules his heart. I’ve never been immune to his touch, not since the first night he seduced me so tenderly. My body remembers that touch, the contrasting gentleness and wildness, and the roughness I discovered I liked. My heart thuds in my chest as my skin heats with a fever that has nothing to do with my flu.
Straightening, he goes back to his schooled self, the lust replaced with calculated control. “Just wanted to give you ample warning in case the idea needs to grow on you.”
It’s a command, not a request. He’s never forced me, but he has faith in his skills. He knows how to use his hands to turn me into putty.
My breathing is shallow when he finally steps away and gives me space. He unpacks the groceries and fixes an early supper of grilled chicken and pan-roasted vegetables. His manner is strong and confident. His actions say he knows what he’s doing. The question is, do I?
Chapter 17
Zoe
For two days, Maxime pampers me. He bathes me, dresses me, washes and dries my hair, and massages my body. He does the grocery shopping and replaces the cubes with granulated sugar. He cooks and cleans the apartment before going to work at his new office in town. It’s a hectic schedule for him, but he doesn’t complain or show fatigue. He’s my dedicated and uncomplaining servant.
The rain stops on the third morning. When the sun comes out, the ants disappear. My health returns and everything goes back to normal. Well, as normal as this situation can ever be.
I’ve been closed inside for as long as I can bear. I’ve had nothing but time to think. The more I think the more anxious and resentful I become. Resentment comes from Maxime forcing my hand and anxiety from knowing I’m not strong enough to resist him forever.
As promised, he hasn’t touched me while I’ve been ill, but sleeping next to him reminded me of how if feels when his hard body slides over mine, how my skin comes alive when he drags his hands over every inch of me, and worst of all, how it feels when he rocks a gentle rhythm into my body. It reminded me of how he makes me fall apart and come together all at the same time.
When nature gives me this reprieve, I get dressed, pull on a light coat, and step out into the sunshine. The salty air and far-off calls of seagulls are familiar. I stop for a moment on the busy pavement to take it all in. The fact that I can leave the building and go wherever I like doesn’t fool me into mistaking this for freedom. I have my phone in my pocket. Maxime can—will—track my movements. I could’ve easily left the phone behind, but there’s something other than Maxime’s possession that keeps me prisoner. It’s the danger that will always hover over my life. He’s no longer the mafia boss in Marseille, but Alexis wants him dead. I have no doubt he’ll use me to get to Maxime. With no guards to trail behind and protect me, I’m taking every precaution I can, including taking the busy roads.
The walk and fresh air do me good. I feel invigorated when I get to an open-air textile market I remember from driving past here once. The smell of grilled chestnuts from the vendor stand mixes with the odor of chemical dye from the fabric. Weaving through the aisles, I drag the familiar perfume into my lungs. Despite my situation, my spirits lift. It’s like the smell of roasted beans when entering a coffee shop on a cold morning or the welcoming scent of ink and paper in a bookstore on a lazy afternoon. Only, it’s the cocktail of threads and colors that makes my heart beat faster. With it comes the rush of memories from the fashion academy and, like an answering echo, a wave of nostalgia. I miss this. I miss the slide of fabric through my fingers and the soothing hum of a sewing machine.