Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 311(@200wpm)___ 249(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
When I make it back to my bedroom, I grab clean panties before heading to my bathroom. It’s not until I’m under the full light that I notice the inside of my thighs.
Oh crap. I hadn’t thought about bleeding. I mean, I know logically you can bleed when you have sex for the first time, but it hadn’t been at the forefront of my mind in the heat of the moment. Nor had protection.
There is clear evidence of that between my legs. I should be freaking out, but the smile on my face doesn’t falter. Yesterday, I’d been hurt about how things had gone and Z losing his shit on me. I was debating going back to Europe, but now everything is different. I truly have a reason to stay. For the first time in a long time, I feel happy.
I think about how we’ll tell my parents and brothers about this as I brush my teeth and hair. We could wait and enjoy our time together before anyone else gets involved. That actually sounds rather nice.
I swipe on some mascara and pause on the lip gloss. I shouldn’t overdo it, then Z will know I got out of bed only to sneak back into it after I'd pampered myself.
Fuck it, I'm putting it on. It is, after all, me. I have lived for lip gloss since I discovered it in my mom's purse when I was young. I have been a girly girl my whole life. That's who I am, and Z knows that.
The only times I ever got down and dirty with the boys or men is when I was learning and practicing self-defense. A must, growing up in our family. One I thought was normal for everyone else too. I'd been gravely mistaken. In fact, a lot of things hadn't been normal in comparison. You don't realize that until you're thrust out into the world.
My reality check may have been a bit different from a lot of others, considering I was put in a fancy private school, but it was still a shock to me. When I went to school here, I was a black leopard. No one wanted to come near me. I'm sure the other kids didn't know who I was, but their parents did, and they told them to stay away from me, and that's exactly what happened.
That made school rather lonely. Everyone pretended I didn't exist but I got through it. When I went to Europe, things were different. I was in the same company when it came to the kids that went there. I flourished there, making some acquaintances. It had been nice, but then I got homesick and missed my family. There was no winning either way.
When I'm done making myself presentable, I decide to go downstairs and make breakfast and bring it back up. Chef Marcello eyes me when I enter the kitchen. He can be rather territorial.
He’s been with our family for decades. I’m starting to think he came with the house. When my brother War took over for my father, he also took over the farm, as we call it. It’s really a giant estate with other homes on it. It sits right outside of the city, but it’s been deemed the farm because of its rolling hills of land.
There are a few barns on the land. One I’m not allowed in, which obviously made me sneak inside. The place was squeaky clean and smelled of bleach. It was easy for me to put together what the barn was used for. My impulse control just sucks, which means I had to see it for myself.
“Morning,” I chirp at him.
“What are you up to?”
I hold back a laugh. “I was going to make breakfast.”
“Then, what is all this?” His Italian accent bleeds into his words. It always does when he gets huffy.
“That is food.” Chef Marcello already has a full spread laid out. He slides his hands into the pockets on the front of his white apron. He has worn the same attire every day for as long as I can remember. It's rare I see him out of it, but those pockets are different.
"It is food you eat. It's already made."
"What if I want to cook for myself?" His expression turns into one of horror. "What?" I laugh.
"You'll blow my kitchen up."
"Hey!" is my only response because he might not be wrong. "Why do you have to call a girl out?"
"I must protect my kitchen."
"What's with the new apron?" I ask, searching under the kitchen island for a tray. A glass baking pan comes sliding out, hitting the floor. I cringe.
"Move." He bumps me with his knee, so I dramatically fall over. "Don't start with me. What are you searching for?"
"A serving tray." I sit up. "That was assault."