Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“To feel you come inside me…”
I released a slow breath as my chest tightened, the taunt hitting me deep in my bones. It was practically dirty talk. But if her husband was sleeping around and coming home to her, it was too risky. “That would be nice.”
“Maybe…we could do that?” She looked at me with an air of hopefulness.
My eyes watched hers. “No.”
“My husband has always been a clean freak. I’m not worried about him—”
“No.”
Her eyes shifted away. “Because you’re sleeping with other people…”
I let her make that assumption because it was better for her to believe that lie than to know the truth. “As much as I wish things were different, they aren’t.” My hand slid into her hair, and I cradled her face close to mine, her neck so small I could snap it in two with just my grip. “But it’s enough.”
My alarm didn’t wake her up the next morning.
My sleep schedule was all over the place because sometimes I was up at the crack of dawn, and sometimes I was out all night. Instead of embracing sleep as a necessity, I regarded it as a luxury, one of the few luxuries I couldn’t afford.
The sound didn’t wake her up, and I hit the gym down the hall. Instead of taking the time to travel to the gym every morning, George had had a private gym built into my home, so my commute was a short walk. I never had to wait to use a machine or weight set. It was all for me, and that made it easier to maintain the standards I set for myself. It was a lot easier to scare the shit out of grown men when you were nearly two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle.
When I came back to the bedroom, she was still in bed, right in the center like it was her place instead of mine. The sheets were pulled over her shoulders, and she was on my pillow, like she reached for me absent-mindedly while she slept.
I got into the shower and prepared for the day. I shaved at the sink and dried off before I walked into the bedroom.
She was awake, sitting at the stool in front of her partially completed artwork, wearing nothing but her underwear and the stained apron George had provided for her. Her hair was pulled back in a light bun to keep it out of her face, the sunlight coming through the windows because she’d opened the curtains. She didn’t notice me right away, not until I opened the drawer of my dresser and pulled out a pair of boxers. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I walked over to her and looked at the painting, seeing the vague details of a woman sitting in a café alone, rain splattered all over the windows beside her. It was hazy, and the table was floating without legs. There wasn’t a lot of context to the moment—but there was a moment.
“I’m still working on it.” She cleaned her brush in the water.
“I like what I see.”
She forced a smile. “You’re sweet.”
“I’m not the kind of man who says what you want to hear, sweetheart.”
She set down the brush and looked up at me.
“Just remember that.” I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.
Her eyes closed slowly and stayed that way when I pulled away. It took her a second to overcome the heat in our kiss, despite how short and simple it was. The intensity I felt, she felt it too. She looked away, cleared her throat, and then rose to remove her apron. Her bag was on the chair, so she opened it and looked through the clothes inside.
“Work at eleven?”
“No. I’m off today, actually.” She pulled out a pair of jeans and a bra.
“Then where are you going?”
She stilled at my question before she turned to look at me. “I don’t assume I’m going to stay here every time I come over—”
“You should.” I opened a drawer and pulled a shirt over my head. “Hungry?”
Color moved into her cheeks, her blush pink like the roses hanging from windows in Paris. “I mean…I’m always hungry.”
“Good.”
She set her clothes down and walked up to me, naked except for the little black thong she wore. Her hand slid up my chest and my neck until she cupped my face. Then she rose on her tiptoes to kiss me, holding my face in a passionate embrace. “But for my first breakfast…I want you.”
11
ASTRID
Theo let the valet take the Range Rover, and we stepped into the restaurant, the place covered in black wallpaper, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The lobby had waiters presenting hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne like it was an event rather than a restaurant.
Theo walked up to the host stand. “Table for two, please.”
“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked.