Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
“Then where the fuck is she?”
“We’re not sure. Sam thinks she told her parents to give her a lift somewhere, and since they did, that means they thought she was safe. Sam didn’t want to alert them until we consulted with you.”
My fist clenches and unclenches. She couldn’t have already moved out like she threatened. Not without luggage, and definitely not without any of her precious cellos and her flamboyant pink car.
Or did she?
Cecily’s words from earlier about how unpredictable Ava gets during her episodes strike me in the marrow of my bones.
She couldn’t have gotten worse.
I stayed away so she wouldn’t get worse. It was torture to peel myself from her inviting body and that satisfied look in her eyes after I wrenched that orgasm out of her.
But the momentary blankness proved that I was wrong to touch her. Again.
That my inability to control my impulsive feral needs whenever I see her will prove to be the end of everything I’ve built during these years.
Sometimes, she’ll walk around in barely-there seductive clothes, and I’ll hear the tick of my control slipping away.
She’ll smile in her signature sunny, bubbly way, and I’ll resist the urge to shield my eyes from the brightness.
Truth is, I couldn’t have controlled myself for long, not when I’ve yearned to own her, shove her down and tie her up, eat her pussy, and then pound into her. Not when I’ve fantasized about watching her cunt stretch to accommodate me as she releases those panting moans.
Truth is, I’ve craved her, so much that it hurts to look at her at times.
If someone had told me I’d come to want Ava in this absurdly carnal manner, I would’ve chucked them into the river like stale goods.
But here we are, years after she softly and courageously confessed her feelings to a cruel monster, knowing I’d hurt her, and now I think about nothing but that infuriating woman.
“How about the tracker on her phone?” I ask.
“It’s turned off.”
The need to plow a hole the size of my fist into the car pulses beneath my skin, but I keep a cool head. It’s the only way possible to find her.
“Contact the Nash family driver, wake him up from sleep if need be, and ask where they dropped her off. Get access to all surveillance cameras in the area.” I slide into the car and tell the chauffeur, “Airport. Now. If the jet isn’t ready, we’ll take the first commercial flight.”
Henderson slides into the passenger seat, phone to his ear, and talks to his connections with the Met Police.
This is why I shouldn’t have removed the security detail. Tapping my finger on the back of my phone, I recall what happened the last time I had someone trail her.
She was triggered and nearly threw herself off a building.
That shit will never happen again.
I’ll personally find my wife.
After a thorough scanning of the area where Ava was dropped off and hours of restless flying on my part, we locate her.
My wife decided to attend a house party with her despicable waste-of-space friends at Bonneville’s flat in Chelsea’s suburbs.
It’s seven in the morning, but I ring the doorbell impatiently, my mood having darkened to its worst after more than twenty-four hours without sleep.
When no answer comes in the first two seconds, I ring again. And again.
On the fourth ring, groans can be heard from inside. Male groans. Pieces of absolute rubbish who’ll be chucked through a window if they happen to be breathing the same air as my wife.
The door finally opens, revealing a sleepy Bonneville, who’s still wearing her shimmering silver party dress, her hair messier than her life.
Her puffy eyes widen upon seeing me. “Eli…? Ava said you were in the States.”
“Keyword being were.” I push past her, forsaking any manners as I march into her upper-floor flat that she only managed to afford due to trust funds.
A plush rug spills beneath my feet as I step into the room. The walls are adorned with wallpaper in dark, classical tones, adding an air of sophistication to the space. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow and highlighting the luxurious furnishings. It's a grand display of opulence and excess, a testament to wealth and indulgence. But there's a chaotic mix of modern and vintage decor, as if the owner couldn't decide on a specific style and simply bought everything she could afford.
Like Ava, Bonneville is a spender, not an earner. However, unlike Ava, who’s a classical music genius with technical prowess that made her teachers weep, she has no talent aside from dressing up as if every day is a party.
My feet come to a halt at the edge of the spacious living room, where at least a dozen people are sleeping in unflattering positions. One guy is hugging a plant. A girl is sleeping in a U shape over the arm of a sofa.