Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Emma accepts the information easily and turns her attention back to Matteo. He’s rambling on and on, more words than I think I’ve ever heard come out of the kid’s mouth. Emma listens to everything he has to say with apt attention. He’s telling her about space lights and dinosaur sheets. Emma reacts to everything like it's groundbreaking news. I could watch this all night, watch the way both of their faces light up in excitement at Matteo’s new room decor.
Motherhood is a beautiful look on Emma.
“Little man, I think it’s past your bedtime. Do you want to sleep in your new racecar bed tonight?” Emma asks him. She looks at the crew of men moving furniture around in the house with a small frown.
“Yeah!” He squirms out of her arms and runs towards the bathroom. I’ve been learning their bedtime routine so I can help with it, and I know it always starts with brushing his teeth and taking a bath.
Emma follows behind him. “You’re all going to have to pause the redecorating until tomorrow. Matteo needs his sleep and I’m not risking him waking up because of moving furniture,” she calls out with a confidence I haven’t seen from her before. She’s okay with commanding a small army of men as long as it’s for the sake of our son.
They all turn to look at me for confirmation, not used to taking orders from someone else. My father and I are the ones who make the calls, and occasionally Andy in my stead. My mother rarely feels the need to. She prefers someone else to be left in charge. And we know better than to give Bianca an ounce of power, or else it will go to her head.
Like how letting her pick out a few pieces of furniture turns into a full house makeover.
“How much am I spending so you can get head from your wife?” I ask him.
“Probably as much as I spent on a wedding so you could take your baby momma’s virginity,” he teases me. “Consider this repayment.”
Chapter Twenty-Three- Emma
I’m standing in the middle of Enzo’s bedroom, and I can’t figure out why. I should walk out, and go back to the guest bedroom. He can’t make me sleep in here if I don’t want to.
It’s at least triple the size of the guest room I’ve been staying in. I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than some houses I’ve seen, and that’s without adding in the ensuite bathroom and walk-in closet.
The door behind me is still open. I didn’t bother to close it when I came in, probably because the feeling of wrongness lingers, and I’m tempted to walk right out.
What am I doing? My feet won’t move, no matter how much I beg them to. My hair is standing up on the back of my neck, every instinct is urging me to leave. I might as well drizzle myself in barbecue sauce and hang a sign around my neck declaring FREE MEAT.
This is a game to him, I remind myself. I’m nothing more than a challenge and he’s pushing me to see how far he can before I break and give in to him. Part of me wants to play along. If he sees I’m not willing to bow to him, that I won’t give in to his charm, he’ll back off.
I doubt it. He thinks it’s impossible I’m not attracted to him.
He’d be right.
The part of me that is focused on self-preservation is the piece that is begging me to run. If I keep playing this game, he’s going to see right through me. With nothing left to guard me, I’ll be defenseless to him and his manipulations. He might punish me for keeping the truth from him.
Probably spank me.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
Being spanked shouldn’t be something that turns me on, yet my body reacts without my permission. He knows it too. He’s been teasing me throughout the entire day with it, whispering dirty things in my ear while I try to buy essentials for the house.
“Good girl, being so polite. I’ll remember that tonight when you’re bent over my knee.”
“Oh baby, you know better. Guess I have to add another spanking to your punishment.”
He would accentuate his words by kneading my ass. His hands would palm it, squeezing and gripping it hard enough that it made me whimper like a damn dog. The store’s attendant heard it and her eyes snapped up to us so quickly, like she was about to catch a free show. The humiliation of being caught in public was less of a deterrent than it should have been. Some sick part of me likes Enzo claiming me where people can see.
Can Stockholm Syndrome set in this quickly? For my sanity, I’m going to say yes.