Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
He’s hard, his cock throbbing as brutally as the pounds of my clit.
I lean into him when he buries his nose into my hair, and he inhales deeply. “Fuck, I’ve missed that smell.”
As the velvety serenade of his moan rolls through me, his hand dips lower. He’s seconds from touching me again, from making me his, when we’re interrupted by a highly likely source since I asked them to meet me here. The boutique is only one block from the bulk-buy grocer we visit once a month.
“Mommy!”
Tillie skips across the room, dragging Mrs. Lichard with her. Her steps are as fast as the one Ark uses to slip through the curtains of the changing room.
Her innocence makes her oblivious to the cause of the redness creeping up my neck.
Mrs. Lichard is nowhere near as fortunate.
Her cheeks are still inflamed from the near-miss when we climb the stairs of our building two hours later and stumble onto a package on my doorstep.
“Who is it for, Mommy?” Tillie asks, her eyes wide like they were when she unwrapped her Nintendo Switch.
“I d-don’t know.” My stutter is easily excusable. I’m perplexed as to why we have received a gift. It isn’t my birthday, and I don’t actively give my address to anyone, so no one could have sent Tillie a belated present.
Tillie is so excited that she looks on the verge of peeing her pants. “Open it, Mommy!”
Her elation grows tenfold when I peel back the red ribbon tied around the glossy white box in haste before popping open the lid.
Air whizzes between my teeth when I drink in the dress Ark purchased for me. It looks as regal in the box as I felt while I was wearing it, but Tillie doesn’t pay it an ounce of attention. Her eyes are steadfast on the invitation that arrived with the one-of-a-kind custom gown.
It is for Ark’s fortieth birthday party, and her name is cited next to mine.
“Can we go, Mommy? Please. I’ll do all my chores and clean my room.” She races inside, prepared to start her promise now if it gives her a chance to attend a celebration I usually decline before she sees the invite. “And you won’t even have to buy me a new dress.” Her beaming-with-joy eyes lock on to the glossy white box. “There’s plenty of material in there for the both of us.”
21
ARKADIY
“What the hell are you doing?”
My eyes shoot to Mara, arched over the top rung of a wooden ladder, to Rafael, watching her daring maneuver from the safety of an armchair in the corner of the room.
“And what the fuck are you doing watching her?”
I don’t give him a chance to answer. I enter the den faster than I exited my office when my mother blindsided me for the umpteenth time the past week and stabilize the wobbles of an ancient-looking ladder before Mara can hurt herself.
“Down. Now.”
“Ark.” Mara starts her defense with a giggle, downplaying my panic as if it is irrational. “The chandeliers are d-dusty, and you have a ton of guests arriving next weekend.”
The ladder wobbles in the aftermath of her shudder when I say, “I don’t give a fuck if they’re covered with cobwebs. I didn’t hire you to clean the chandeliers. Down. Now!”
With my snapped command leaving no room for arguing, Mara commences climbing down. Her scent gets stronger with each rung she descends—as does the firmness of my cock.
That is the exact smell I seek anytime I shower, and the exact smell my mother is using against me to paint me as an evolving monster. She said it is too innocent for a “real man” to find appealing, and anyone who believes otherwise should seek a psych evaluation.
Halfway down, Mara mumbles, “I don’t understand why you hired me, Ark. The toilets, showers, and sinks are cleaned every morning before I arrive, and all the beds are m-made. I’ve got nothing to do but dust chandeliers and polish silverware.”
I’m stolen the chance to relish how fast her stutter is lessening in my presence when Rafael mumbles under his breath, “It isn’t the silverware he wants you to polish.”
My glare would have more heat if I hadn’t noticed how much Mara’s confidence thrives from his multiple underhanded comments that I want her. The self-assurance that flourishes in her eyes makes her even more fascinating, and it has me hopeful I can block out my mother’s hurtful comments for just an hour.
That’s all I want—an hour of peace. Then maybe my head will stop thumping as ruefully as my heart does anytime I force myself to walk away from Mara instead of walking toward her.
My mother hasn’t stopped harping in my ear for the past two weeks. I’m at the end of my tether. Her prolonged visit to Myasnikov has put me in such a bad mood everyone is avoiding me—even the woman who has had more impact on my life in weeks than my mother has had in decades.