Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
One of these days, we’ll need to talk about what a normal, healthy amount of sex is. Men aren’t supposed to fuck their wives every night like they just got out of prison.
I picture that discussion and shake my head. Who am I kidding? Soreness or not, I don’t mind his desire for me one bit. Peter’s intense sexuality is a part of him, as unapologetically fierce as his love for me. It accepts no boundaries, adheres to no restraints. And I want him like that: savage yet tender, lethal but perversely sweet.
I’m done pretending that I’m anything but crazy over him, as wrong as that might be.
Delicious breakfast smells are already seeping in from under the closed door, so I take a quick shower in our new, luxurious bathroom, throw on a T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants, and hurry downstairs, my stomach rumbling.
My husband is standing by the restaurant-grade stainless-steel stove, flipping pancakes, and I stop, saliva pooling in my mouth at the sight. Dressed in a well-worn pair of jeans and nothing else, he’s all wide shoulders and lean, hard muscles, the tattoos decorating his left arm flexing with every movement of his powerful biceps. His thick, dark hair is deliciously mussed, as if inviting my fingers to touch it, and his tan skin gleams in the bright morning light.
Turning, he faces me with a sensuous smile. “There she is, my little songbird. How are you feeling?”
I lick my lips, unable to take my eyes off the broad expanse of his chest. “Hungry.”
“Uh-huh, I thought so.” He grins. “Unfortunately, ptichka, you slept so late that it’s now brunch time. Your parents are getting here in twenty minutes, so you’ll have to wait.”
I glance up at the clock and realize he’s right. “This is all your fault,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. “You kept me up really late.”
“I know. Poor darling. Come here.” He comes toward me, eyes gleaming darkly, and I back away.
“Nuh-uh. We don’t have time.”
He reaches for me. “We always have time.”
“The pancakes—”
His warm lips close over mine, his tongue invading the recesses of my mouth, and my fingers find their way into his silky hair as my head falls back into the cradle of his palms. His breath is honey-flavored—he must’ve been sampling those pancakes—and I can’t help but blink dazedly when he finally lifts his head, staring down at me without a hint of playfulness.
“I can’t fucking wait until we’re alone again,” he mutters, then dips his head, claiming my mouth with a fiercer, harder kiss, one that leaves no doubt of his ultimate intent.
He’s going to take me again.
The moment my parents leave, I’ll be back in his bed.
The doorbell rings just as he comes up for air again. “Fuck.” Breathing hard, he lets go of me. “They’re early again.”
I smooth my hair with an unsteady hand, painfully cognizant of my kiss-swollen lips. “You better get dressed. I’ll go greet them.”
“Hold on.” He strides over to the stove and flips the pancakes from the pan onto a serving dish. “So they don’t burn,” he explains before heading out of the kitchen.
I sneak a peek in a mirror on my way to the door. I definitely look like I’ve just been ravished, but there’s no helping it.
I smooth my hair again and open the door to greet my parents.
They insist on a tour of the house first, so we go from room to room while Peter sets the table. As I show everything to my parents, I’m once again amazed at how much my husband accomplished yesterday. Though a few boxes are still sitting discreetly in some corners and the furniture is minimal at best, everything is organized and neat… almost unnaturally so.
“I can’t believe you’re so settled already,” Mom says, voicing my thoughts. “I thought your closing was Thursday?”
“It was,” I say. “But Peter has a way of getting things done.”
“No kidding,” Dad mutters, opening a linen closet and finding the towels already inside, neatly folded. “He’s a machine, that husband of yours.”
I reach over to squeeze Dad’s weathered forearm. “Yes, and that’s a good thing.”
My parents aren’t exactly on board with our relationship yet, but I’m hoping that as they spend more time with Peter, they’ll come around. Our first dinner together went relatively well last week, thanks largely to Peter being surprisingly open about his past and his feelings for me. It also helped that he told them straight out that he wants to start a family, tantalizing my parents with the promise of grandchildren they’d all but given up hope of seeing.
With my dad having turned eighty-eight and my mom just nine years younger, their grandparently biological clock is getting increasingly loud.
Though my dad’s arthritis is acting up and he’s using a walker today, he insists on braving the stairs to see the whole house. We finish the tour in our bedroom, where I’m surprised to find the bed made. Peter must’ve done it when he went upstairs to get dressed.