Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
So what?
How does he flay me open without even trying?
And the scariest part? Why do I like it?
He leans in, one hand braced beside my head. His eyes are stormy and beautiful. My heart beats faster. I want him to touch me, and I don’t want him to be gentle.
He smells like vodka and soap. I lick my lips.
"Why do you think I’m not afraid of you running anymore?" he asks in a whisper.
The truth is, he should be.
He should be waiting for me to slip up, but instead, he watches me.
The air between us snaps like electricity.
I roll my eyes to hopefully hide my reaction to my pounding heartbeat. "Because you know how to track me."
He touches my chin, tracing the line of it. My breath hitches for a second.
"Yeah, little ghost. But we both know that’s not the truth. Not all of it anyway, is it?"
He’s just as fucked up about me as I am about him.
He’s supposed to hate me. Even his parents hinted at that.
I can’t look away. I can’t stop myself. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, dragging him to me. His body presses up against mine, and I crave being closer, connected. Flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth, tongues tangled. Because I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life.
I don’t know what the hell that says about me.
His hands skate down my sides, rough and possessive, leaving a trail of heat behind.
"How long is the wash cycle?" I whisper.
His low, dark chuckle makes my nipples harden. "Long enough."
I sigh and close my eyes as his lips meet mine.
His kiss isn’t soft—too much wanting, too much need. His hands fist in my messy hair, keeping my mouth locked to his, and I feel it… I feel it.
The way he’s holding back.
The way his control slips through his fingers like sand.
Fuck it. I want to make him lose control. I want to see exactly what happens when Matvei Kopolov snaps.
"The tour," I tell him. "You going to finish giving me the tour?"
“Right.”
I feel a giggle bubbling up because—god help me—he’s kind of cute when he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“So this is the laundry room. Down the hall are some guestrooms, and upstairs is the bedroom. Our bedroom,” he says in a rush of words.
"That’s great, but I hope you know I’m gonna buy something pink. Maybe lots of pink.”
He makes a face. "Pink?"
"The ultimate feminine color, and it’s my favorite. Don’t judge."
"I don’t want pink in my bedroom." His nose crinkles.
“Challenging your fragile male ego? I thought it was our room?”
He growls and pinches my ass.
“Fine then. Creams, golds, neutrals. Is that better? Your whole house is like some kind of control freak manifesto."
He shakes his head. "You’re unbelievable."
I smile at him sweetly, and my stomach growls. Still starving.
Something buzzes between us.
"Either you’re packing a vibrator or someone’s calling you."
"Option two."
He answers his phone, lifts it to his ear, and, with his other hand, keeps me pinned against the wall, holding me there like I might vanish if he doesn’t keep a grip.
I watch his eyes while he talks, and for no reason at all, I lick my lips. His fingers tighten on my shoulder, a silent don’t you fucking start.
Yum.
I swallow hard.
"Yes. No problem. Yeah, she knows because my mother’s got a big mouth, so we need to get together soon. Of course, yeah. Bye."
He hangs up and looks at me. He shrugs, all nonchalant, but his hand is still on me. "Guess they’re not coming after all."
My stomach knots. I don’t know what to do with the swirl of conflicting feelings.
On one hand, I’m disappointed. I have a sister, and I wanted to meet her. Surely no one can be as bad as his mother?
On the other hand, I have exactly zero desire to see Rafail anytime soon, so yeah—relief.
And I’m still starving.
"I guess I have a little more time to get some clothes."
“Or not.”
My pussy throbs.
"And some food," he says. “I’m about five minutes away from throwing shit."
He pushes away from the wall, but his fingers lace through mine.
He’s holding my hand.
I’m not a hand-holder. I’m not a cuddler. But I like holding his hand.
"Here," he says, handing me his phone. "Order what you want."
I take his phone in my right hand while he leads me down the hall.
"Anything I want? What if I want a pony?"
He grunts.
"A pink pony?"
"Guestrooms," he mutters, jerking his chin toward a few doors. "Bathroom. This one’s nice—it’s got a waterfall… thing. Whatever you call it."
He speaks with quiet pride. This is his house, one he crafted in some way for himself, one that’s all his—away from his parents’ suffocating bullshit. Even if they’re still circling, waiting to pull him back under.
"And I really don’t give a fuck what you order. Just get me some food. Fast."