Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“She is,” I lie again, stepping closer. “And I don’t appreciate people looking at what is mine. Especially men undeserving of her time.” There’s no missing the possessiveness in my tone. It is full of warning and silent threats. “So anytime you see her, I suggest you look the other way.” He stiffens abruptly when I add in Russian, “Or lose the ability to see entirely. The choice is yours.”
The color in his cheeks drains as his smile vanishes. “Of course. I meant no harm.”
He loses the chance to add more assurance to his reply when Mara’s scent tickles my senses. She places her minimal purchases on the counter before digging through her purse for some bills.
“I’ve got it.”
She tries to stop me from grabbing my wallet. When she is unsuccessful, she uses words. “It’s fine, Ark. I can’t invite you to eat and expect you to pay. That isn’t how hosting works.”
She can speak without a stutter because the cashier isn’t game to lift his eyes from the register. He punches her purchases into a dated cash register before bagging them and handing them to her.
I accept them on Mara’s behalf before placing my hand on the small of her back and guiding her outside. She doesn’t stiffen from my hands being on her. It is from the cashier’s clamber for a morsel of power.
“Congratulations on your recent nuptials.”
29
MARA
Nuptials?
I glance at Ark, who looks gorgeous in a crisp midnight-blue business shirt, minus the stuffy tie he’s rarely without, and designer slacks that cost more than I make a month.
He’s glaring at the cashier.
If looks could kill, the cashier would be on his knees, clutching his chest.
The cause of their tension dawns on me when the butterflies in my stomach augment. They’re not fluttering with the fear that usually shakes my vocal cords. They’re too low for that. They love the protectiveness beaming out of Ark and how sharing some of my secrets with him didn’t change his obsession with my safety.
The knowledge frees my voice from encumbrances when I say, “Thanks. It’s new but amazing.”
My husband’s mouth curves egotistically when I shift my eyes back to him, and I hit him with an animated wink. It reduces the scowl between his brows and hovers his hand so close to my back that goose bumps prickle on my nape.
I arch into his embrace, craving his touch, before I guide our walk back to my apartment building.
Something as simple as being guided down an isolated street shouldn’t instigate a fiery response, but I feel like I am on fire. My thighs ache from the number of times I press them together, and my panties feel damp.
The responses of my body grow more uncontrollable the longer we walk. Our attraction is intense. Burning. And his closeness is the drug my body desperately needs to fully wash away the haunted memories clinging to my skin.
Icy winds announce winter is only a hair’s breadth away, but I feel so toasty when we enter my apartment ten minutes later that I sag against the door, needing its coolness to subdue the inferno burning me from the inside out.
The fire is upgraded to catastrophic when Ark spins to face me. He radiates power and authority, but I pay the most attention to the hunger in his eyes.
He craves me as badly as I crave his touch, and it’s reached a point where I can no longer hide the truth. “Kiss me. Please. Wash it away.”
The lack of fear in my voice is shocking, but it has nothing to do with how fast Ark jumps to my command. I scarcely register the groceries being dumped onto the entryway table before his hands are in my hair, and his mouth narrows toward my parted lips.
As we breathe as one, our eyes locked and silently devouring, he tugs on sweat-damp strands, forcing my head back before his eyes seek permission to kiss me like I didn’t beg for him to do precisely that.
When I nod, he leans in deeper before spearing his tongue between my lips. My fingernails scratch at the varnish on my door when he strokes his tongue along mine, tasting every inch of my mouth.
I’m desperate to lose my fingers in his dark mane, to drag my nails over his scalp while returning his confident embrace, but the consciousness that not all the thudding of his heart is from our heated kiss stops me.
If I want him to shift my thoughts of sex from painful to pleasurable, I need him to exert the authority he did during our previous exchanges. To do that, he needs to feel comfortable and confident.
Touching him won’t allow that.
When I balance on my tippy-toes, stealing the last ounce of air between our bodies, Ark growls into my mouth before he deepens our kiss. I’m pinned between him and the door, hungrily aware of his desires as well as I am mine. He’s hard, his cock thick and strained against my damp panties that are seconds from being exposed by the unladylike thrusts of my hips.