Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He points to me. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish, Janie.” I grin widely at him, feeling so free, so happy, and so passionately spent.
I know I’m playing with fire, but I can’t resist. “I’m sure I can have you naked and inside me within seconds.”
He pauses at that, and then the dimples taunt me. “You have work.”
“I do,” I admit, not caring one bit.
“And we’re supposed to ‘play it cool,’” he says, and I can tell he still doesn’t like that we’re going to do it this way. It’s more for him than it is for me. I don’t care if I lose everything, as long as I have him. His career, though… That’s something I can’t let him lose. “And I can’t do that if I get inside you, because I won’t want to be anywhere else.”
I snort at that. “Fine, what is it you need?”
He points at the pancakes I made him this morning. Just how I’ve been eating them for years, they’re covered in pink frosting and sprinkles. “Janie, these pancakes are trash. They’re too sweet!”
I gawk at him. “No way!” I say, stalking toward him and shaking my head. “They are so good. Are you sure you’re eating them right?”
He gives me an incredulous look. “How in the hell do you eat pancakes wrong?”
I laugh as I notice he just tore a piece off. “You’re eating them wrong.”
“I’ll ask again, Austen. How in the hell am I eating a flat piece of batter wrong?”
I give him a look. “Is it batter if it’s cooked?”
He just stares at me, but I can see him thinking really hard. “Why are you making me feel stupid right now? What the hell is a pancake called when it’s cooked?”
“A pancake, dork,” I tease. “And again, Dimitri,” I say, breaking down every syllable of his name, “you are, in fact, eating it wrong.”
“You can’t eat a pancake wrong!”
“You can!” I feel his gaze on me as I roll the pancake and then hold it up to him like a taco. “Now take a bite.”
“That’s not a pancake. That’s a taco.”
“Take a bite.”
He eyes it and then me before leaning forward for the proffered bite. He chews, and I wait for his face to change, but it doesn’t. “Yeah, baby. This is trash, too sweet.”
“Ugh! You’re crazy,” I accuse, taking a bite and loving it. “They’re so good.”
“I don’t think so,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist. He pulls me into his bare chest. He doesn’t wear many clothes when we’re at home, and I, for one, enjoy it immensely. With his lips to my ear, he says, “If I want something that sweet, I’ll fall between those legs of yours and eat you.”
My stomach clenches as heat radiates off him. Breathless, I side-eye him. “I thought I had to work.”
“That is true, and you told me I have to behave.”
“Which you hardly do,” I tease.
“Again, this is true,” he says, nibbling at my ear.
“Seriously, though, what is your favorite treat? I feel some kind of way that you don’t like mine.”
He grabs me by my center, cupping it not hard, but surely not gently. “I love your treat.”
“Dimitri! Jeez. I mean food, you feral Russian Stallion.”
He chuckles against my neck, inhaling me. “You know horses love sugar cubes, and you taste just like sugar on a juicy, warm fruit.”
I sigh dramatically, but it’s only for show. I love what he is whispering. “Can you relax and tell me what your favorite treat is?”
He hums against my neck, nibbling at my flesh before nuzzling his nose along my ear. “I could argue that I’ve always thought you smelled like a warm, sugary treat—”
“I am about to go finish getting ready if I can’t get an answer,” I warn him. “And no sugar will be had.”
He chuckles against my throat. “Like you would resist me.” Oh, that ego. And damn it, I know he’s right. I would fall before him with my legs wide open and have no regrets whatsoever. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that. “My grandma made me Kartoshka growing up.”
I smile. “Did she add cognac?”
His lips part, and then he turns me around in his arms, eyeing me. “Yes, she did.”
My smile is so wide as I look up at him. “So, one of the compounds we stayed in when I was younger was in Pennsylvania, and it was this small little town of Russians who had moved here during the First World War and made a home. There was this beautiful older lady there we all called Babu because I couldn’t say babushka. We didn’t have Elliot or Clara yet, so everyone did what I wanted because I was the baby,” I tell him, and gone is that fire in his eyes, replaced by compassion and excitement for the story. “She loved me so much. And oh, I loved her. She was so good to me. We would have full conversations in Russian since Louisa and Eliza weren’t fluent like me. She would carry me on her back, tote me all over town, called me her baby, and we would do nothing but bake for her bakery. Oh my goodness, she taught me so much,” I gush, almost dancing on my toes.