Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Then again, from what she’s told me, there isn’t much to cry about. I’m doing her a favor here, taking her away from the constant overwork and sense of deprivation that she suffered before we met. She should be on her knees sucking me off this very minute, not pouting and pushing food around on her plate with her fork.
She shifts in her chair, causing the dress she’s wearing to ride up her thighs. It doesn’t matter how I tell myself not to look, not that there are any boundaries between us—husband and wife—but I have a difficult time staying on subject when I’m too busy ogling her body. It’s better if I keep my eyes on my food.
Yet my gaze keeps returning to those legs. Christ, what I wouldn’t give this very minute to have them wrapped around me. And I could—it would take nothing to overpower her. By the time I was finished, she would be begging me for more, of that I’m absolutely certain.
But that’s already gotten me into enough trouble. Letting my cock do my thinking for me. And it would be yet one more reason for her to resent me, which I’ve had just about enough of already.
“I take it you weren’t able to connect with Elena today.” I eye her over the rim of my wineglass and note the darkening of her cheeks.
“What’s it matter? Even if I did have time to connect with her before she ran off, what would she say when I have somebody standing over my shoulder the whole time?” She lifts her gaze and pins me with a hard, cold stare. “Well? Got any big solutions to the problem?”
“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to goad me into a fight.”
“Why would I ever do that? It always ends the same way, and I don’t like it very much.” Yet her cheeks color again, and I have to wonder how long she plans on lying to herself. We both know she doesn’t hate when I manhandle her nearly as much as she pretends to.
“As for Paolo, you can complain all you want, but he’s not going anywhere. I want him over your shoulder, as you put it, at all times.”
“But why? That’s what I don’t understand. What, do you think I’m going to try to run away?”
“You? Oh no, you would never try something like that.”
“Or is it to make sure I don’t speak to anybody but her? Like somebody you wouldn’t approve of?” She arches an eyebrow, and damn if my cock doesn’t spring to life in response. Not that he wasn’t already twitching, thanks to those legs of hers, now exposed more than ever after she’s crossed them. It’s a good thing I’m busy with my knife and fork, or else I would have no choice but to reach out and run my fingertips over them. Who am I kidding? I would do a lot more than that.
“You’ll have other opportunities to connect with Elena,” I remind her, ignoring the heavy-handed way she tries to stir my jealousy. “And I know better than just about anyone what a good liar you are. You can come up with a way of easing any apprehensions she has.”
“Can I?”
“Can’t you?” I bark, and she jumps slightly at the sudden change. Good. Let her remember I’m not fucking around. “You brought me back here for the purpose of making Elena pay for setting you up. Was that all a pretense?”
“No.”
“Because from where I sit now, it certainly seems that way. Maybe I was foolish to trust you. Maybe you don’t need to go to school or to reconnect with your so-called friend.”
“It wasn’t a pretense.”
“Fine. Then figure something out.” I drain my wineglass and would refill it if it wasn’t for her penetrating stare. I’d rather she not read anything into my overindulging. “I told you that I don’t appreciate this attitude. Do you think I’m joking? What did I do to deserve this?”
“Maybe I had a tough day.”
“So tell me about it. I fucking asked you, didn’t I?”
“Maybe I don’t feel like talking to you about it. Did you ever think about that?”
Damn her. Why do I even give a shit? That’s the true question here. I shouldn’t care. She’s feeling pissy and bitchy and bratty, and as far as I’m concerned, she can shove her attitude straight up her delicious little ass.
It’s my fault. I’ve gotten overly fond of talking with her. Relating to her. Hearing her unique take on people and situations. That night we spent here in this kitchen, drinking our warm milk—that started it. There’s no way of recapturing that encounter, yet here I am, doing my damnedest to get us back to that place. Unsure how we got there, to begin with.