Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Well, two can play at this game.
Kiss you or take you over my knee.
I lick my lips. It doesn’t help that blood is pulsing through my veins and I already know what he can do with that mouth. I can only imagine what it feels like lying over his lap. I would kick and scream and fight him and he’d overpower me.
And I would fucking love that.
Now that I’ve decided I’m going to lean into this and make the best of it, I’m giving myself permission to really appreciate the upside here. The guy is hot as hell.
Women always talk about men’s arms, or their backs, or how hot they are when they take their tees off. But me? Goddamn, give me a man with shoulders. Shoulders I can anchor myself on when he pounds into me or bite when I wrestle my way on top.
Now it’s my turn to swallow and take him in. Jesus, people underestimate the effect of a plain white tee stretched over well-defined shoulders, carved biceps, and a six pack.
Rawr.
Still, I probably shouldn’t let him sneak up on me like that.
"Don't you have better things to do than watch me?" I snap, acting mildly annoyed by his intrusion.
He steps closer, his movements calm and deliberate. "I didn't realize you were so skilled."
I roll my eyes, turning back to the punching bag. He calls whacking the shit out of a punching bag skilled? “Yeah, honey, there's a lot you don't know about me."
He doesn't leave, instead moving to a nearby weight bench. Out of the corner of my eye, he pops a few weights on a bar that likely equal my entire body weight. Shocker.
For a moment, we work out in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Despite myself, I can't help but glance at him. His movements are fluid and precise, his form textbook perfect—a testament to his own training and discipline. He’s disciplined as fuck, and that’s kind of a turn-on to a woman like me.
After a while, I stop, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Why are you here, Lev? Are you trying to keep an eye on me?"
He sets the weights down, wiping his hands with a towel. “It’s not all about you, beautiful.” He winks at me.
Is he… flirting?
“I’m here for the same reason you are. Or maybe I just needed a distraction."
I narrow my eyes, skeptical. "From what?"
He hesitates, then looks at me, his expression unexpectedly open. He looks away and doesn’t answer at first. I wait. Finally, he shrugs a shoulder. "From everything.” He lifts the bar again.
I don't know why, but his honesty catches me off guard. For a moment, I see the man behind the ruthless exterior and the weight of his burdens. It's a fleeting glimpse, but it's enough to stir something within me.
"You're not the only one with burdens," I say quietly. "We all have our own battles."
He nods as if acknowledging my words. "I know. And sometimes, it's easier to forget them for a while."
We fall into a comfortable silence. Tension ebbs away like the passing of a rainstorm. I start to understand that beneath our mutual animosity, we have a few things in common—pain, responsibility, and a drive to survive.
Today is core day, but who’s keeping track. I’m sore, but that doesn’t stop me from hitting planks and sit-ups with gusto. We don’t talk.
Finally, I want a shower and a proper breakfast, so I head to the door.
As I go to leave, Lev calls out, “Isabella.”
I turn, waiting.
“You're not alone in this,” he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. “Remember that.”
I don't respond, but his words linger as I walk away. For the first time, I wonder if there's a way through this mess where we might find a sliver of understanding. A sort of truce.
I mean, we’re fucking getting married.
“I need some clothes. And… things,” I tell him.
“Make a list,” he says, in between bicep curls. I watch the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the carved muscles in his arms. I swallow.
“Then what?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I frown. “How long will you treat me like your prisoner? Even if I do marry you?”
He drops the weight to the floor and draws himself to his full height, his hands anchored on his hips. “As long as it fucking takes. Forever if I have to.”
I stifle a growl.
He lifts a ridiculous amount of weight and starts bench pressing.
Show-off.
He starts lifting. I need to find something that will distract him.
Oooh. Glutes.
I stand in front of him, feeling the weight of his gazes as I grasp a bar. With deliberate slowness, I position it across my shoulders. I glance in his direction to make sure I have his full attention then focus on the mirror in front of me. I make sure to capture his gaze in the mirror as I descend into a deep squat, my form perfect and my movements controlled. I rise, the muscles in my legs and glutes tightening with the effort, knowing he can’t look away.