Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I’m rough, but she arches her back and makes sexy, needy little sounds. I fuck her until her arms give out and she goes down on her elbows, until pleasure erupts at the base of my groin and fills up the condom instead of her body. One day, I’ll empty myself inside her. I’ll mark her. When I do, no man will ever touch her again. She’ll belong to me forever, not only for four years.
I ease her down gently and cover her body with mine, making sure to keep my weight on my elbows.
Pressing a kiss behind her ear, I say, “No more talking to Alexis.”
She turns her head to the side, her cheek flat on the blanket and her breathing heavy. “Is that what this is about? That’s what you’re trying to teach me? That you’ll fuck me like it’s a punishment in broad daylight where anyone can see if I speak to your brother?”
I pull out, causing her to whimper. The beach is secluded. You can’t see it unless you look over the cliff, and the boats don’t sail past this cove. There are too many rocks in the shallow water. I wasn’t planning on doing this, either, when I set up the picnic. Fucking her here became a part of my intentions after I caught her with Alexis. Yes, I want her to accept me inside her body anywhere and anytime, and yes, I don’t want her to talk to Alexis, but that’s not what this is about.
She’s mine. All mine.
That’s the lesson.
Chapter 19
Zoe
It must be the effect of the champagne, but it’s after nine when I wake up the next morning. The cup of rose tea on the nightstand is cold. Maxime’s side of the bed is empty. He must’ve gone to work.
After showering and changing, I use the same stationary to write another letter to Damian. Emails aren’t allowed, although he has limited access to a computer for the studies he took up in jail.
I seal the letter in an envelope and go downstairs. A breakfast of croissants and oranges are laid out on the dining room table. I eat quickly, then carry my plate to the kitchen. Francine is standing at an island counter, chopping onions. She’s dressed in black pants and a silk blouse with a white apron tied around her waist. She lifts her eyes when I enter but doesn’t say anything.
I put the plate in the dishwasher and lean against the counter. “I have another letter. If you tell me where to leave it—”
“In the silver tray in the entrance.”
“Look, I…” I get why she doesn’t want me here, but I can’t tell her I don’t have a choice. I remember Maxime’s threat all too well, and he’s a man of his word. That’s another lesson he’s taught me.
“I’m busy,” she says. “I’m here to cook, not to chitchat when you’re bored.”
“Does Maxime read the letters?”
She gives me an irritated look. “I’m not psychic. You’ll have to ask him.”
Fine. This is how she’s going to play it. I straighten and walk to the door.
Her words stop me in the frame. “You won’t last, Zoe.”
My name is like an insult on her lips. I look back at her from over my shoulder. “It seems you didn’t.”
Her cheeks flush red. “I’m here, am I not?” She smiles. “We’ll see where you are when he grows tired of you.”
A rather frightening thought. I hope not on the bottom of the ocean.
For the rest of the day, I install myself in front of the fire in the library. I page through the coffee table books with photos of the region, but I can’t focus. I switch on the television and figure out how to set the language to English. I’ve never owned a television, and I lose myself in a spy series, but by late afternoon I’m hungry and bored. I’ve skipped lunch.
Pushing the throw aside, I go in search of something to eat in the kitchen and find a salad and a glass of water set on the table in the dining room. I eat listlessly before washing my plate and glass in the kitchen. Francine has already left. A casserole stands on the stove.
I walk to the window and peer out. It’s rainy today. Drops lash at the windows. The ocean is obscured in a haze of fog. The grounds that stretch to the edge of the cliff are green with hedges and bushes trimmed into shapes. A maze stands in the middle.
I go from window to window, looking at the garden from different angles. I arrange the books in the library in alphabetical order. I switch the television on and off. Finally, I sit down in my favorite chair in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames. Normally, I would’ve daydreamed to pass the time, but dreaming isn’t my go-to escape any longer. That dream, the one about Venice and love, has been vandalized. It hurts too much to poke at it or to try and construct something new from the debris that’s left.