Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Making this silent oath, I get up without waking her. After a quick shower, I dress in casual slacks and a button-down, suitable attire for a Sunday lunch at my brother’s place. I make coffee, have breakfast, call a private taxi, and leave a note for Violet.
The taxi drops me off at the bar where we left Violet’s car. On the way home, I make a few stops. The first is at The Brightwater Commons. The guy from last night blanches when he sees me, but I assure him I’m not back to kill him because I changed my mind about liking the tattoo.
Thirty minutes later, I leave with Violet’s initials inked on the underside of my arm. The script matches her tattoo. It’s like a second wedding ring. If I made her wear one, it’s only fair that I do the same. Besides, I like the way her initials look on my body. I like the idea that it’s permanent.
The florist downstairs stocks a variety of bouquets. That stop is easy. So is the one at the wine cellar. The next one at the toy store is more difficult. I browse the aisles for more than an hour, at a loss for age and gender-appropriate gifts. Eventually, I settle on an educational card game and the pink, fluffy monstrosity the sales lady recommends.
After a last stop at the chocolate boutique, I make it home by eleven. The sight that greets me when I enter with my arms full of shopping bags simultaneously calms me and speeds up my pulse. Violet is standing in the kitchen, holding a mug between her palms. Her dark hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the thick strands tamed into obedient curls. The lavender color of her eyes pops against the golden tan of her skin. A pink sundress hugs her figure. With the sunlight filtering through the window as a backdrop, the fabric is semi-transparent. I can guess the outline of her pink lace bra, and even if I can’t see the traces of her panties under the wide skirt, I can imagine them. She’s barefoot, one foot propped up on the other, sipping the coffee I made for her.
The picture is a stunning mixture of sensuality and homeliness. Standing there like that, she looks as if she belongs in my kitchen and in my life.
My casual, “Good morning,” doesn’t betray the tightness of my chest as I walk to the table and deposit my purchases. I’m afraid of what I’ll find, petrified that I’ll never snap her out of whatever strange state she withdrew into last night.
The fact that she doesn’t reply isn’t reassuring. Going over, I stop in front of her. A few beats pass as I do nothing but smell her, feel her, and look at her. The fragrance of her skin makes me want to lick that salted caramel taste on every part of her body. I want to burrow my nose in her hair and inhale her essence to make it my own. I can stand like this forever, exploring all the corners of her presence. There are a million ways in which I feel her, in how she fills my space, a trillion follicles on my skin reacting to her nearness. I can look at her features until we’re old, and I’ll never grow tired of the lines of her face. There’s not enough time in eternity to discover all the delights of her sharp tongue and creative mind.
She’s like a drug. My flame.
Taking the mug from her hands, I leave it on the counter. She doesn’t argue or question me. She lets me treat her like a doll, like my pretty marionette. I miss her fire.
Leaning closer, I cup her head and press the lengths of our bodies together. We fit like we were carved for each other. Her soul is the missing piece to mine. Our breaths mingle as I tilt her face up. When I close my eyes, I trust blindly. When I lower my head, I break a promise I made to myself on the night she betrayed me. And when I brush my lips over hers, I kiss her like I’ve never kissed a woman.
The kiss is tender and unrushed. Framing her beautiful face, I slant my lips over hers and lap up the delicious taste of her mouth. Her lips are soft and pliant, the curves plump and juicy. She tastes of coffee and milk, of everything I’ve denied myself. Denied us.
She opens her lips and lets me inside, not offering resistance as I take the leisurely exploration deeper. She lets me manipulate her mouth however I please, but she doesn’t give in. Not yet. She makes me work for it, hard, and I do. I use every technique and skill I possess, pouring everything I’ve got into one, single kiss.