Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Living became more of a luxury than a way of existing, which is how it remained until four days ago when I discovered that there can be absolute bliss in the so-called mundane.
Each evening consists of a picnic style dinner at varying locations on the estate where we use my flames to roast meat—last night was ostrich—drink in excess—for a work night—swap non-work-related stories—still not sure how conning her way into a comic book convention is that hard—and make out like we’re two young shifters going through puberty with a moonlight curfew.
The last part is my fault.
Or…mainly my fault.
Perhaps both our faults.
Once her mouth is on mine, I become obsessed with hearing her moan and pant and struggle for air while she seems captivated by my tongue, the shape of my lips, and how much pressure it takes to get me groaning. She nips me and then I nip her and the next thing we know our clothes are slightly torn and our skin covered in bitemarks or hickeys.
Post those sessions are hot baths for her—cold jerkoff showers for me—and then bed. Despite the fact we’re not sleeping together we are absolutely fucking sleeping together. She positions herself with her feet at the padded headboard so that we’re face to face when I’m on my platinum-colored couch, the very same couch I abandon after taking a piss in the middle of the night. Once I’m through, I crawl in beside her, curl a protective arm around her midsection that’s covered by a silky gown, and lower the classical music we drifted off to down one notch.
Similar to our evenings and nights, our mornings have their own habitual activities.
Visiting her mother to check on her progress levels is always first. On our way over, she sucks on a hard candy to calm my nerves while reviewing the most recently logged medical notes from Dae who is still struggling to flush the poor woman’s system in between shifts at her actual job. From my understanding, whatever poison Magitek pumped her with was done in abundance for years and reversing that damage is a tedious as well as a laborious task.
Sadly, breakthroughs have been few and far between.
She hasn’t stopped identifying herself by number; however, her responsive ticks to hearing Cameron is her daughter and seeing photos of her husband—who my Fated Mate is not so cleverly avoiding talking to—are growing stronger during each exposure.
She now eats—something she didn’t for the first two days—relieves herself—in a bucket which I take a daranguing for the second we’re out of the secured facility—and practices combat moves to pass the time according to the security footage we periodically stream during the workday.
By the time we’ve finished checking in on her mother, there’s not a minute to waste in getting dressed, getting coffee from Gene, and getting out the door in separate vehicles as to not raise suspicions at the office regarding our…“involvement”.
And the only thing that mollifies my hatred for not being able to drive my Fated Mate to the office is the fact she spends most of her day in here—my restored office—with me. She does have her own space on the floor directly underneath mine and disappears to it at least twice in the morning during my conference calls that I need privacy for and once after lunch to conduct routine interviews. All other moments on the clock, she’s stationed at the corner conference table on the side that allows her to face me, with her laptop, her phone, organized folders, and to-go cup beverage of the day.
Sometimes it’s cold brew.
Sometimes it’s tea.
Today it’s chocolate milk.
And I know that for a fact because she brought me one too along with an oatmeal raisin cookie, my favorite, which we discussed on our second evening together.
It was…thoughtful.
Honestly the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me in far too long.
I redirect my stare away from the email I should be sending to Z regarding his vehicle registration renewal over to where Cameron is diligently doing her job, although what that is at the moment, I’m not entirely sure about. I’ve asked during work hours and been told in an impressively professional manner it was none of my business. I’ve asked during our dinners—in a normal “what’s going on with your work” sense—and been told in a flirty way that legally she wasn’t allowed to discuss it with an outsider. Reminding her that I’m not some random civilian and the CEO simply had her returning to her previous stance. Her ability to not only talk me in circles but to outwit me by the book is infuriating.
Sexy.
That fucking too, Platinum. That fucking too.
“Stop leering at me,” Cameron states, slick high ponytail swinging around as she oscillates her attention between the documents in front of her.
Fuck, I wanna pull it.