Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
He crossed his arms. “Very well.”
“I presume that part of this arrangement is that you get sex. That’s the deal, right? I get to stay alive, and you get to do whatever you want to me.” My heart was hammering, and my breathing was tight. From fear. It’s completely from fear. I turned to him. “Right?”
He moved closer and I swallowed. Those frozen-sky eyes had gone molten, and I saw his lips form the shape of yes. But he said nothing for a heartbeat, just stared into my eyes. And then—
“If something happens,” he said, his voice ragged with lust, “it’ll be because you ask for it. I wouldn’t touch a woman against her will.”
I swallowed. And now I want him even more. It was suddenly very quiet. I licked my lips to speak, and his gaze instantly flicked to them. What would it take, right now? Saying his name? Just parting my lips a little? I could feel that pull towards him, like I was sliding over a cliff…
I broke his gaze, staring at the floor as I silently counted to three. I had to resist. I had to stay cold and clinical, like him. Negotiate this stuff the way one of the mafia women would.
I lifted my gaze and banished all emotion from my voice. “I guess if this isn’t a real marriage, I can’t expect you to be faithful.”
He hesitated. Then, in a voice as cold as mine, “That’s right. There’ll be other women.”
I tried not to let that affect me. Why should I care? I pulled away from him and walked over to the window. Cold and clinical. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he agreed. Then his voice changed. “Wait, are you saying the same applies to you?”
“Well...yeah. If I meet some man and I want to fuck him then—”
I heard him march across the room in three big strides. He grabbed my arm and spun me around to face him. Suddenly, all pretense was gone. He scowled down at me and the possessive fury in his eyes made me go weak. “You are not fucking anyone else!”
“Well...then I guess you aren’t, either,” I muttered.
He nodded, glowering. But I didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes: relief.
While Radimir worked in his office, as ruthlessly efficient as a machine, I wandered the penthouse, getting a feel for my new home. I couldn’t get over what a long walk it was, from one end to the other. In the bedroom, there was a walk-in closet that was bigger than my entire bedroom. It was full of Radimir’s suits, shirts and ties, all meticulously arranged, and it smelled of him.
“I will clear some space for you.”
I jerked and looked up. Radimir was gazing at me from his office. How long had he been watching me?
“No need,” I told him, and pointed. “My entire wardrobe will fit between your blue shirts and your white shirts.”
“I’ll buy you more,” he said solemnly.
So, I look the part, like Lilliya. The perfect mafia wife. I couldn’t imagine power-dressing like the women at the funeral. I spent my life in jeans and sneakers. He’s marrying the wrong woman.
I dropped onto one of the big leather couches and brooded. I couldn’t love him, and I wasn’t going to give in to temptation and let him fuck me again, however much I craved that. But if we were going to be trapped in this marriage, I wanted us to get along. What if I learned Russian? That would help, right?
I downloaded a language learning app for my phone, put in some earbuds and stretched out on the couch for a few hours, repeating—and mangling—things like What time is the train and I’d like to buy a hat. When my stomach started rumbling, I went into the kitchen and dug through the refrigerator. There was some weird stuff with Russian labels I wasn’t brave enough to try but there was enough regular food that I managed to whip up one of my triple-decker comfort sandwiches with turkey, cheese, tomatoes, mustard, pickles and chips. I made one for Radimir, too. He was on some sort of conference call, so I just set it down on the corner of his desk and quickly retreated. He looked up, surprised, and nodded in thanks.
I hit the Russian app for another hour and then, when my brain was fried, I pulled out a book and lay on one of the couches to read. It was long enough that I could lie on my stomach, my favorite position for reading ever since I was a kid. My mind slipped into the story: I was in sun-drenched Texas and my horse was sick and the only guy who could help her was the one I’d sworn I’d stay away from—
“You’ll strain your eyes.”
I jerked, rolled onto my side to look up and nearly fell off the couch. I must have been reading for hours because the penthouse was dark. Radimir was standing beside the couch, gazing down at me, his expression unreadable in the shadows. “It’s time for bed,” he told me, and his accent carved so much into those four words. A touch of humor, like he thought it was cute that I’d gotten caught up in reading. A little protectiveness, as if he really didn’t want me to strain my eyes. And an undercurrent of heat that soaked right to my core and rippled down between my thighs.