Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Why can’t you have children?”
His question jars me, and my eyes instinctively drop, avoiding his suddenly shrewd gaze. “Women’s problems,” I murmur. “You?”
“Men’s problems.” A strong palm lands on the towelling robe covering my thigh, squeezing gently. I stare at his long, thick fingers. His nails are clean, short, and neat. The indentation on his ring finger catches my eye, and without thought or instruction, my right hand reaches for my left and feels at where my rings once sat. The rings that are now lost at the bottom of the Thames, thrown there in a moment of insanity and rage. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, his words a silky, cruel promise that sink deep inside me. Words that should be dug out immediately. “Your hair needs drying.”
I look up at him. Of course he didn’t mean to actually look after me forever. Dec hadn’t originally struck me as the kind of man looking for forever. Now, after seeing various sides of him, I honestly don’t know what to think. But it’s all moot, anyway, because even if he was, I can never have a happy, content, peaceful forever, and that’s nothing to do with Dec. “Then dry it.” The temperature in the room shifts significantly, his eyes smoking as he moves his palm in small, steady circles on my thigh.
“I will.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
His parting lips are arresting as he swallows hard, blinking repeatedly. I can’t help but wonder if he’s fighting the urge to take in my robe. Remove it. Expose me. Both of us suddenly seem acutely aware that there’s merely a loose scrap of soft towelling between my naked body and his hungry eyes. “Maybe it is.” His hand glides inward a few inches, getting alarmingly close to the bare flesh of my inner thigh. My naked pussy. A surge of desperation rushes south, making me throb so hard, I’m sure he can feel it. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so badly, to taste his tongue, feel his soft, wet lips on mine.
Fascination and anticipation swirl in my tummy as he finally allows his gaze to fall down my front. I’ve never felt so bared, even completely covered. He swallows hard, blinking rapidly for a few painfully long moments, before he seems to shake himself from his thoughts, retreating. My heart screams for him to come back. My head wills him out of my life.
“Where will I find your hair dryer?” He stands abruptly, so abruptly the legs of his chair scrape the tile floor, filling the kitchen with an ear-piercing screech.
I look at him towering over me. Can he see the devastation in my eyes? He’s had multiple opportunities to kiss me, and he’s taken none. “In my bedroom.” Uncertainty weighs me down as I stand and leave him in the kitchen, cringing my way to the bedroom, wondering if I’m being ridiculous, imaging the brief moments of electricity between us. Is it hope and nothing else? For over two years, my mind has been so reliant on any form of distraction I can find, I’m scared I’m reading into things that shouldn’t be read into. Take the sex. It’s what I’ve done—given my empty vessel of a body to any man who’s unknowingly offered me a respite from my wretchedness. Screamed while they’ve fucked me, stroked their egos, and made them feel like heroes.
No numbers are exchanged. No feelings are ever caught. There’s no meaningful conversation. Not even a kiss goodbye when I dress and leave their room before they’ve even caught their breath. There are only suggestive smiles. Meaningless, brief pleasure.
I go to the corner of my bedroom. My dryer’s in front of the mirror propped against the wall, the lead in a tangled mess. It takes me a good two minutes to unravel it, and when I turn, I find Dec in the doorway taking in this room too. The unmade bed. The closed curtains. The makeshift rail in the corner where a few work dresses hang, the rest of my clothes strewn on various pieces of furniture—the chair in the corner, the blanket box at the end of my bed, the headboard, the chest of drawers. A new dose of shame grabs me. “Life’s been a bit hectic lately.”
“Sorry?” Dec blinks again, his impassiveness turning my way. I can see it on him, even if he’s trying so very hard not to let it show. Shock. Disgust?
“It doesn’t matter.” I pass him, and he’s once again claiming a limb to stop me. I freeze, staring forward, scared to look at him.
“Something tells me it does matter,” he says quietly, his hand sliding down into mine and holding it.
Why am I letting him in? Because this? It doesn’t feel good. I cast my eyes to his, only my head moving. “It really doesn’t.” I gently pull my hand from his grip. “This is too much.”