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)
Not giving her a chance to reply, I walk from the room, because I refuse to have this fight in the nursery that’s supposed to be a safe, peaceful haven and a sanctuary for a child.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Anya
My wedding day is unavoidable. Time doesn’t stop for anyone. The days roll from January into February, bringing with them snow and colder weather. The fifth of February arrives on a freezing but gloriously sunny morning when I, ironically, feel stronger and more rested than I have in the last two months.
I lie awake next to Saverio in his bed, staring at the strip of sunlight that spills through the crack in the curtains. A glance at my phone on the nightstand confirms it’s just after eight. Surprisingly, I slept well. I never wake up so late. Neither does Saverio. Today is an exception. He’s not going for a run or to the gym. He wants to save all his energy for what’s going to happen.
My stomach contracts, and it’s not a Braxton Hicks this time. In seven hours, I’ll be Mrs. De Luca.
Shit.
A nervous flush works its way over my body, heating my skin.
I get up quietly and pad to the window. When I draw the curtain aside, bright sunlight rushes in and blinds me. Blinking, I stare at the white landscape below. We had fresh snow only yesterday.
I give a start when soft lips brush over my shoulder and a strong arm curls around my waist.
The heat of Saverio’s body penetrates my skin through the fleece of my pajamas as he drags me closer and presses his chest against my back. I thought if I wore ugly pj’s to bed, he’d be turned off, but it never worked. Already, his cock grows hard against my spine.
“Sleep well?” he asks with a deep, husky timbre in my ear.
I nod, not trusting my voice to speak.
He closes his other arm around me and holds me in a firm but tender embrace as he drags his jaw over the arch of my neck. “I want you so damn much, but not before the wedding.”
The rough tickle of his stubble makes me shiver. “Are you superstitious or traditional like that?”
“Not even close,” he says, nipping my earlobe. “But the next time I fuck you, you’ll have my surname.” He rests his cheek against mine and stares out over the garden. “Mrs. De Luca.”
I say nothing because what can I say? He’s been exceptionally gentle with me these last few weeks. He treats me like a queen in public. He always puts my needs first at home. I can’t fault him on anything except for forcing me into marriage when he doesn’t love me. Yes, our chemistry is incredible and he gives me pleasure as well as a pair of warm arms after he makes me come so hard that I forget my own name, but that’s lust, and no marriage has ever survived on lust alone. Plus, I can’t forget that the real reason he wants me is for the baby I carry in my womb.
He kisses the shell of my ear. “Go back to bed. I’ll fetch you breakfast.”
My body turns cold when he untangles his arms and steps away from me. I mourn the loss of his heat even as I say in an upbeat voice, “I can get it.”
“No.” The command is stern. “You’re the bride. I’m going to pamper you today.”
And he does exactly that.
After serving a breakfast of French toast with berries and honey and a cup of steaming mint tea, he runs me a bath sprinkled with rose petals. While I soak in the warm water, he massages my shoulders with lavender oil and gives my feet the same treatment. He heats a towel on the warming rack, pats me dry, and rubs body lotion into my skin, paying special attention to my stomach, before wrapping me up in a fluffy robe. Then he makes me sit at the basin with my head tilted back so that he can wash my hair and massage conditioner into my scalp. He twists a smaller towel around my hair and orders me to recline on the daybed in the sun while he makes the bed and tidies the room.
When that’s done, he prepares an early light lunch of sliced cheeses, cold meats, olives, breads, and tomato chutney that he lays out with freshly squeezed orange juice, a jug of lemon-infused water, and an ice bucket with non-alcoholic champagne on the coffee table in the room.
“For you and Tersia and Livy,” he explains. “In case you get hungry. I suggest you eat something even if you don’t feel like it. You’re going to need your strength.”
He leaves the room to return a moment later with a black clothes bag that hangs to the floor. He exchanged the pajama bottoms for sweatpants and a T-shirt.