Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
The girls were fed well so they could work well, but they weren’t given steak.
I was the only one who was.
She sat at the edge of the bed again, this time looking at the fire.
I ate my dinner, wiped the plate clean, and then took a deep drink of the scotch, letting that familiar burn ignite then subdue my nerves. I extended the glass to her in offering.
She shook her head.
I finished it off.
“Please don’t punish my sister.” Her hands were together in her lap, but she held her back straight as she sat at the edge of the bed, like a Parisian noblewoman. Watercolor paintings were hung in my residences, fine pieces of art that showed French aristocracy, and beautiful lords and ladies were on display. That was exactly what she reminded me of, one of those gorgeous women who should be preserved in an oil painting created by an artist talented enough to capture her surreal beauty.
I could stare at her for hours but always find something new to appreciate. The length of her slender neck was engrossing, the way her collarbone sat on her frame, the way her chin was so sharp in her face that it made a prominently curved line, showing just how perfect every angle of her profile was. My art collection had started as a status symbol, an ode to my noble roots, a history that filled my walls and reminded me of what I’d reclaimed. But in time, I’d begun to appreciate those multimillion-euro paintings, begun to appreciate the famous artists whose work filled my homes and apartments. And that made me appreciate this one-of-a-kind woman. Her work clothes were unflattering, her hair was pushed out of her face so she could focus on her tasks meticulously, and her skin was bloodless because of the cold, but somehow, she made Parisian models look like trolls. She made my whores unremarkable.
“Please…”
The desperation in her quiet voice brought me back to her request. “I don’t think about your sister.” I was well aware of the situation because I’d been briefed. The situation was over now. Nothing left to think about.
She inhaled a breath of relief as she played with her fingers in her lap. “Thank you…for the fire.”
I relaxed into the armchair with my fingers wrapped around my glass, choosing to spend my evening winding down to the presence of her beauty, the sweet sound of her gentle voice, pondering how I would have her when she wanted me to have her.
“Where did you go?” Her guard visibly lowered in front of me. She was finally beginning to realize I was no threat to her.
“Paris.” The women in my bed were of a specific caliber. Models, whores, socialites. Beautiful women in every category. This was the first time I’d ever taken an interest in a woman in the camp. I couldn’t buy her a drink, take her to an estate outside of Paris, couldn’t get between her legs in any conventional way. So, I sat in my chair and waited for something to happen, for her to want me like the others…because they always wanted me.
“Is that where you live?”
I gave a nod before I brought my glass to my lips.
“What did you do there?”
“Work.”
“What does work entail?”
It required too much effort to answer, so I chose not to.
She seemed to understand I wasn’t much of a talker, so she stopped asking questions.
There was only one way I wanted to communicate with her. My hand in her hair, my hips between her thighs, my arm hooked behind her knee to keep her open so I could thrust time and time again, make her wince in pain then moan in ecstasy. I wanted to communicate with fire, with grunts, with the taste of my sweat on her tongue, with the lock of our blazing gazes.
She stared at the fire, the dancing flames reflecting in her eyes. “Why me?”
My palm rested on the top of my glass, and I listened to the fire pop when it became so hot that it burst. I stared at her cheek, saw the way her light-colored hair fell from behind her shoulder and hung down her chest, fully dry. “I like beautiful women.”
She turned away from the fire and met my look. There was no surprise there, but there was also no arrogance. She would have to be blind to dispute her beauty, but she clearly didn’t view herself in that regard either.
“And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
A small burst of surprise exploded in her eyes.
“I will have you.” I would have her as another item in my collection, a living and breathing piece of artwork. A painting in my bed, a piece of jewelry on my arm, a different kind of wealth that other men would envy.