Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83040 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
But he grabs my arm and pulls me towards him. Then he flips me over on my back, straddles my hips, pins my shoulders to the bed, and stares down at me with a crazed, psychotic look on his face that I do not recognize.
“You like it. You LIKE it!” He’s snarling these words at me. “Say it. Tell me you like it, Olive. You better tell me you like it because if you don’t—”
Then, as if a switch was flipped, he’s calm again, staring down at me with affection and love. He even pushes some hair out of my eyes. “God, you’re so beautiful. I love you so much, you know that, right?”
I press my lips together and nod.
“Say it, then. Say it, Olive.”
“I love you.”
He smiles. “Of course you do. We’re partners, remember?”
I nod again. “Yes. How could I forget?” And suddenly, all my fear disappears. He’s not mean, he’s not psychotic, and all of this makes perfect sense. Which makes me feel stupid. So stupid, I laugh. “Oh, my God, what’s wrong with me?”
He pets my face, brushing the back of his hand down it. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Olive. You’re perfect. I should know, I made you this way.”
Again, relief washes through me. “Of course you did. Of course I am.”
Then he’s kissing me, his lips gentle and soft. “Of course you are.” He whispers this into my mouth and everything is right with my world. “You love me.”
“I love you.”
“I am your mission.”
“You are my mission.”
He sighs, sliding off to the side of me. But his fingertips slide down my stomach, right between my legs. “Good girl. Now you get a reward.” He strokes me. Slow, at first, but when I respond by arching my back and breathing heavy, he does more than stroke me, he puts his fingers inside me.
He fucks me like this and when I come, I wake up with my own fingers between my legs.
19 - Brose
My new office in Blackberry Hill is cold and stark compared to what Olive and I had at the estate in Leesburg. One desk, one chair, no windows. The walls are gray, the floors are gray, even the light feels gray.
I don’t like it, but no one has ever cared if I liked something or not. Especially when it comes to work. I did bring along one personal item—a framed photograph of Olive and me.
It was last summer—just a few months ago—and we were in the city for a meeting with CORE. And by city, I mean New York, of course. The only one that matters. We were in Central Park, just walking around enjoying the nice day. And I had this urge to buy her a balloon. Back in the old days this would’ve been a choice of colors. Do you want red, or blue, or yellow?
But today, the choices come in the millions because it’s one of those trendy vending machines where you pick all kinds of options and it prints it out and fills it up while you wait. The whole thing from start to finish takes about seven minutes.
Olive made a castle. It was like six feet tall and in the form of an arch. And when it was finally all blown up, and she took the string from the robotic hand, she looked at me and said, “We need a picture.”
So we stood in the archway and got someone to take our picture as the fantasy castle bobbed around us.
Unlike today, it was a good day.
I’m leaning back in the desk chair, holding the frame of this scene out at arm’s length, just staring at Olive Creed as a deep sense of loss flows through me. It’s only been a few days since the estate in Leesburg was cleaned out and I was moved down here, but this is the longest we’ve ever been apart. We’ve spent the last two years being each other’s whole world.
And now I’m alone.
I don’t like it.
My office door opens and my grandfather pokes his head in. “You’re settling in?”
It’s not one of those questions you’re meant to answer—not truthfully, at least. But there’s a question mark at the end of it, so I appreciate his effort and stand up to force a smile and look him in the eyes. “Perfectly. Come in. I don’t have a chair—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “I didn’t come for a visit.”
“Of course not.” Why would he do that? It might imply that he loves me or something.
“I came to take you to lunch. Up for it?”
“Sure.” It beats sitting here pining over the woman I love who is now, and probably forever, out of reach. But I don’t say that out loud, of course.
He opens the door wider and waves me through it, then comes up next to me as we travel down the long, mostly dark hallway. I don’t understand the aversion to lightbulbs that don’t sputter down here, but I’ve got bigger things to worry about than the décor, or lack thereof, of a deep underground military base.