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)
By the time Maxime gets home, the dress is stitched together and only missing the finishing touches. I had to set up the dress form in the lounge area since the landing is too small.
He steps inside and stills for a moment as he studies my work. A frown flitters over his forehead, but when he meets my eyes, his lips tilt into a smile. Holding my gaze, he drops his laptop bag by the door and takes off his jacket. The muscles in his back bunch under his shirt as he hangs the jacket on the coat stand. He works his tie loose while he crosses the floor and takes a seat on the sofa in front of the cold fireplace. It was a warmer day, and I try to use the firewood sparingly. In silent instruction, he holds a hand out at me.
Knowing better than to refuse, I walk over and place my palm in his. Gently, he tugs me into his lap. Memories of us sitting like this in his old house when he came home at night fire off in my brain. I settle stiffly against him. I’m wearing a pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt because I wanted to be comfortable while working, and it feels oddly out of place next to his business attire. My hair is twisted in a messy bun on my head, and my face is scrubbed clean of make-up. For some reason, being less presentable than him makes me feel like I’m at a disadvantage in a war that’s about to play off. Everything between us, even when we fuck, is a war. I would’ve felt better equipped to defend myself against his manipulation if we were at par, but now I feel like some kind of Cinderella facing a sophisticated, albeit dark prince.
He drags a hand over my thigh, letting it rest on my knee. “What did you do with yourself today?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to recreate how we used to be, but that dynamic has shifted. I’m still his captive, yet what we were is long gone. It’s not our situation that has changed. It’s me. Where I craved his affection before, I now fear it for all the ways in which it can destroy me. I made the mistake of thinking he was capable of feelings once. I won’t do it twice.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Zoe? Don’t you have anything to tell me?” I try to shift off his lap, but he tightens his arm around me. “I thought you were done with designing.”
“Does it bother you?” I ask in a catty tone. “Maybe you’d prefer I do nothing all day.”
My stubbornness to discuss my day with him is born from my resistance to this strategy, one in which he never gave me a choice, but he doesn’t get angry or impatient. His voice is gentle as he says, “On the contrary, I’m happy that you’re doing something you love.”
I’m not going to tell him I’m planning on selling the dress to supplement his income. We need the money badly, although he refuses to admit it.
“The design is very unlike you,” he continues.
“Yes, well, it was about time I grew up.”
The frown I’d glimpsed when he walked through the door returns as he studies me with a serious expression. “You think you were anything less than grown up before?”
I snort. “I was naïve and stupid.”
He searches my face for another moment. “I’d say you have a certain amount of naivety, but that’s part of what I find so endearing about you. As for stupid, I have to disagree.” When I don’t reply, he continues. “Don’t you see? I don’t want you to change. It’s you I want, just the way you are.”
Too late. I’m already changing. I can’t help it. It’s the only device I have to protect myself from breaking more, but I keep that to myself. It’s a weapon. It’s my secret device, and I’m not sharing that with him.
His eyes darken in a way I’m well familiar with just before he pushes his hand under the elastic of my sweatpants. When his fingers find my folds, shame engulfs me for my body’s reaction. Need makes me heat from my lower body upwards, sending flames that burn hotter in my cheeks. I hate myself for getting wet when he rubs a calloused finger over my clit. Grabbing his wrist, I try to hold him back, but it’s not him I’m fighting. It’s myself.
“Let go,” he whispers, rubbing his nose over my temple.
With his free hand, he wiggles the pants down over my hips, exposing my humble cotton underwear. I want him inside me so badly it aches, yet I plead, “Please, no.”
I feel dirty and weak for wanting this. Instead of obliging, he wraps one arm around me and pushes my underwear down with my pants. Just like before, I’m exposed to him, naked from the waist down. The way he studies me heats my face more, but it also perversely turns me on. I’m lost even before he parts my folds with a finger, testing my arousal. Satisfaction bleeds into his steely gray eyes when he discovers my wetness. Without preamble, he sinks two fingers inside. The stretch makes me sigh even as I hate myself more for responding this way. I feel filthy and depraved as he starts fingering me.