Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
A strange feeling of discomfort settles inside me. It takes me a minute to understand the cause and to name it.
Guilt.
A terrible notion of failure makes me feel sick to my stomach. I’m worried that I’ve been a bad mother, neglecting my son’s emotional and psychological welfare. Just because Noah never complains doesn’t mean I’ve met all his needs. And what he seems to need is a father figure.
Noah doesn’t read along with Dante as he does with me, reciting the story from heart. He’s listening to Dante with riveted attention, as if he’s hearing the story for the first time. To sit through the duration of the ten short pages is both moving and torture.
When the story is finished, I tuck Noah in. Dante stays as I give Noah his dinosaur and kiss him goodnight. His presence makes me uncomfortable, but I can’t tell him to go away. Noah is too happy to have him here. I can’t take this from Noah when I already feel guilty that my son missed a father figure in his life. Besides, Dante will do what he wants to do. He’s not going to listen to me.
I leave the bathroom light on in case Noah wakes up in the night. He’s never not shared a room with me, and he tends to get frightened when he wakes up in a strange place. It always takes him a moment to remember where he is.
Noah yawns and rubs his eyes. “Goodnight, Dante.”
I stare down at his sweet face. “Do you want me to stay with you? The bed is big enough for both of us.”
Dante locks his fingers around my wrist, his grip a little too tight. “Your mom is just next door. You can call her or me if you need us.” To me, he says, “He has to learn to sleep in his own room.”
Noah blinks up at Dante. “Where’s your room?”
He replies without hesitation. “I share one with your mom.”
His honesty surprises me. I didn’t think he’d want to explain how that works to Noah, but Noah, who’s used to sharing a room with me, doesn’t question the arrangement. He simply accepts the fact as someone who grew up without the luxury of space.
Dante pulls me to the door. By the time I quietly shut it, Noah’s eyes are already closed. I’d prefer to leave the door open so I can better hear if Noah calls for me, but I don’t want our arguments to wake him.
Dante all but drags me behind him through the lobby. He stops in the lounge, his large frame towering over me as he stares at me with an expressionless face and beautiful but dead eyes. My heart starts hammering in my chest. I’m alone with him now, a situation I’m starting to dread for reasons I don’t want to examine.
He drops his gaze to where his fingers are wrapped around my wrist. The marks from his belt are still fresh, the welts where the leather chafed my skin red and swollen. He traces the embossed line with a thumb, brushing the calloused pad back and forth over my wrist.
Letting my arm go, he lifts his hands to the scarf around my neck. I lean away, but that doesn’t prevent him from deftly untying the knot and letting the scarf drift to the floor. He locks his fingers around my neck, caressing the bruises he left there.
My mouth is suddenly too dry. “What are you doing?”
“No one leaves a mark on you but me.”
I’m not even going to ask what that means. The statement is too disturbing.
“Did you like it?” He drags his gaze up slowly until he meets my eyes. “What made you wet? The pain? Or my hand between your legs?”
I swallow. The action makes my throat brush against the rough skin of his palm. “I hated it.”
Or that was the idea. That was what I was trying to achieve by letting him fuck me in such a perverse manner. Now, I’m not so sure I succeeded.
He clicks his tongue. “What happened to my sweet vanilla girl?”
The words could be interpreted as a judgment, but his tone carries no emotion, making it difficult to guess if it’s meant as a compliment or critique.
I clench my jaw at the unwelcome reminder of our history. “I’m not your girl.”
“I disagree.” He smiles that dangerous smile that brings out the dimple in his cheek. “What did I tell you before I took your virgin cunt?”
Caught in the trap of his fingers that are locked around my neck, I’m unable to escape. I can’t run from him or my past. Yet I can learn from my mistakes. I can keep my feelings private and protect my heart.
Lifting my chin, I tell a blatant lie. “I don’t remember.”
His dimple grows deeper even as his eyes turn darker. Colder. “In that case,” he drawls, “let me remind you. I told you if I put my cock inside you, you were mine, that once I’ve had you, I wouldn’t let you go.” His smile is sharp and cruel. “Does that ring a bell?”