Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Oh.” Archies mouth twists in consideration. “I thought it would be like lot of different voices in your head.”
“Just one voice. In a few languages.”
“What language do you dream in?”
“English. Unless I’m dreaming about my mother, and then I dream in Finnish.”
“Archie, Uncle Van has somewhere to be.”
“One more thing. Please?” From thinker to pleading, Archie does his best begging cherub impersonation.
“One,” I warn.
“Uncle Van, will you say something Finnish before you go.”
It feels like his heart is in his eyes as Niko looks at me. “Rakastan sua.”
“What does that mean?” Archie asks.
“It’s a secret.” Niko turns from my son, holds out his hand. “Walk me out?”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a secret.” Niko turns to me and holds out his hand. “Walk me out?”
“Yes. Of course.” I push my chair back. “I won’t be a minute, boys. Please stay away from the pool.”
We leave though the open patio doors to a chorus of complaints. We’re not babies, you know!
“I sometimes think they were easier as babies.”
“Oh?” Our gazes connect and I almost say he could find out for himself if he married someone else, but the words seem stuck in my throat.
“Well, you get to put them into baby prison occasionally.”
His reaction is part disbelief, part what the fuck, but it only lasts half a second.
“Baby prison. The crib, I mean. Bars and stuff. Anyway,” I add brightly as my cheeks begin to burn, “are you off anywhere nice this afternoon?”
“I have a couple of meetings. Some paperwork to finalize.”
I make a chiding tsk. “Working on holiday, Mr. Vanyin.”
“This I don’t mind,” he answers with an enigmatic looking smile. “I probably won’t be back in time to pick you up this evening, in which case Sergei will drive you and the boys and I’ll meet you there.”
The boys. The words, his carefulness, tugs on my heartstrings.
“Thank you, Niko. For making this easy for them. For involving them.”
He shrugs off my words. We’ve reached the front doors by this point and his hand is still wrapped around mine as he turns to face me. Something about the moment pulls at fragments of my memory. Was there another time we stood like this, dust motes dancing over our joined hands? The warmth in his eyes echoed by that in my chest.
“I didn’t know you still designed clothes.”
His eyes seem more blue sky than cool water right now, though it could be I’m trying to deflect. Trying to ignore the jolt of pleasure at Niko’s knowledge of that secret part of me. Still, I give a diffident gesture as I answer.
“It’s more like a hobby I can’t afford at this stage.”
“I could—”
I’m shaking my head. “No.”
“Peanut, always the helper.” He reaches out, the back of his knuckles coasting down the side of my face. “Never the helped.”
I roll my eyes, a familiar sense of discomfort washing over me. “I thought that was your role this time. Niko to the rescue, wasn’t it?”
“It’s not a selfless gesture, darling. There is something in it for me.”
“That I’m not sure I’ll ever understand,” I answer, lowering my eyes as to shield my pleasure.
“Do you still make your own clothes?”
At this, I lift my head. “On occasion.” When I have the time and the energy.
“Do you have something with you that you might wear tonight?”
“I suppose,” I reply, mentally scanning the contents of my suitcase. Not that my clothes are in my suitcase, but hanging in the walk-in closet, carefully pressed by his almost invisible housekeeper.
“Then I look forward to seeing you in an original creation.” He lifts my hand as though to kiss it, pausing only at my answer.
“I didn’t say I was going to wear it.”
“For me.” His voice was made for seduction, the rasp in it a little hard. Commanding.
“We’ll see.”
I’m not quite sure how it happens, but we’re suddenly pressed together. Thighs, hips, stomachs, his big hand flattened low on my back.
“For me.” His velvety words are like a play of fingertips between my legs. I can’t look at him. Because I feel him everywhere. Heat pools, sensation blooms. He hasn’t touched me since he’d comforted me in his London house, and I only now realize I’ve been aching for this. I watch as my hand slides up his arm, following the line of his bicep, my chest rising and falling with tight, aching breaths. “You know you love to please me.” The pressure of his hand increases, feeding this need inside me. He knows what he’s doing—can see how my nipples have turned to hard points under the thin cotton of my sundress.
“We’re not talking about this.” Who I become when the bedroom door closes. When I reach that point where I can’t pretend anymore.
“I have something we can talk about instead.” I expect explicit and incredibly smutty, my body tightening in anticipation of it, even. “Your forty-eight hours are almost up.” My thoughts scatter, my body still pulsing. I push against him, fighting this moment, this conversation. “Crunch time, darling.” His hand lifts to cradle my face. “Are you ready to marry me?”