Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
My treasure is angry with me, and although her discontent beats wrong in my chest, I don’t regret my decision. I never intended on trusting a woman again, let alone dragging another one to the altar. I don’t trust Anya because I shouldn’t. If she gets the chance, she’ll escape me. If she could, she’d tell the truth and have me arrested for Lewis’s murder.
But if giving her my surname protects her, there’s no question about doing it. The possessive part of me wants this. The part of me that’s just found the woman who awakened my slumbering libido wants to tie her to me. For good. Forever. A different part of me wants what only she can give me, something I’ll otherwise never have.
And as the countdown to our imminent union advances, she makes no move in either choosing a ring or a dress. I’m giving her all the choices I can, the only ones she has, but she’s making a very clear statement by choosing nothing. My words of last night upset her. I felt it in how rigid she turned in my arms when I gave her my ultimatum. Nevertheless, she dozed off quickly after that. Mercifully.
After I fucked her raw, she was exhausted. I made a stunning mess of her, marring her pale skin with bite marks and scratches from my stubble. She still has the hickeys on her neck and shoulder to show for it. Hence the silk scarf she wears today. Sadly, it’s not one I used to tie her up. The thought of her wearing that improvised rope around her neck makes me hard. It was only last night that I fucked her with a V-plug and a vibrator, yet I’m starving for her again.
I push the lust down. She needs time to recover. Nicole is having a field day with my sex questions. She probably hopes my dick falls off so that she doesn’t have to answer the hundred and one inquiries I text her every day.
At six, Anya is still typing away on the laptop I gave her. The keys make a clacking sound as her fingers fly over them. She doesn’t look up when I push to my feet, take my jacket from the back of my chair, and pull it on.
I go over and stop in front of her desk. Still, she doesn’t acknowledge me. She continues to type as if her life depends on it. I press a finger on the back of her laptop screen, pushing it closed.
Finally, she lifts her head to grace me with a glare. “I’m not done.”
“You’ve been going at it for hours. You need to eat and rest.”
The set of her mouth is obstinate. Cute. “I’m not hungry or tired.”
I take her laptop and zip it up in the computer bag.
There.
End of discussion.
She scowls. “You’re a control freak, Saverio De Luca.”
I grin. “You’re a workaholic, Anya Brennan.”
She wheels back her chair and crosses her arms. “Speak for yourself.”
I throw the strap of the bag over my shoulder. “Come on.” Taking her hand, I pull her to her feet. “Let’s go feed you.” I grab her coat from the stand and help her to fit it. “What do you feel like eating?”
“I don’t know yet.” She adds with spite, “As I said, I’m not hungry.”
“I know you, treasure,” I say with a chuckle, gripping her elbow and pushing her to the door. “In twenty minutes, that baby is going to demand to be fed, and you’re going to fall on the nearest plate of food like a vulture.”
She scoffs, but she doesn’t argue because I’m right.
My men stand outside. They follow us through the gallery and down the stairs.
Cleaners wipe down the tables. The candy floss scent of the floor wash they used is stickily sweet in the air. The barman takes stock before opening. He nods when we pass. A bouncer calls the elevator when we approach.
We wait as the numbers above the doors light up. I draw Anya closer and wrap an arm around her shoulders just because I can.
The doors open with ding. Two women in skinny jeans and puffy jackets exit. Their platinum hair falls straight down their backs.
The twins.
They wink at me, batting long, glittery eyelashes. Their full red lips curve with sultry smiles. I don’t know their names. I never ask. They speak a little English, but I’ve never been interested enough to strike up a conversation.
Next to me, Anya tenses.
The girls pass in a cloud of perfume, giggling as they glance back over their shoulders.
I lead Anya inside the elevator and hold the doors for my men. We ride down to the underground parking lot in silence.
Once the men have gone ahead to get the cars, Anya asks in a terse voice, “Who are those women?”
“Strippers.”
She faces straight ahead. “Did you fuck them?”