Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Pushing open the door to his bedroom with his back, he carries me past the king-sized bed where he’d taken me so many times last night. At least some of the soreness in my body must be from that, I realize with a flush. Nikolai was insatiable, and so was I.
I lost count of how many orgasms he’d given me.
The memories are still playing in my mind in an X-rated reel when he sets me on my feet in front of the tub and reaches for the tie of my hospital gown. Those memories must be why I stand there like an obedient child, letting him pull the gown off me, baring my body to his hooded gaze—and why I don’t voice a single objection as he picks me up again and deposits me into the hot, bubble-covered water, being careful to drape my bandaged arm over the side of the tub to keep it dry.
I can feel the tension in him as his hands brush over my naked skin, the same tension that coils inside me, making my skin burn and my pulse thunder in my ears.
Killer. Torturer. Monster. The damning words float through my mind, but they do nothing to cool the fire raging in my blood. Having experienced the devastating, addicting pleasure of his possession, my body craves more, needs more. It doesn’t care that the hands running the soapy sponge over my chest and shoulders had taken two lives mere hours ago, that I’m not his lover but his captive.
“Sink in a little deeper,” he murmurs, his voice a low, sensual rasp, and I mindlessly obey, reveling in the feel of his strong fingers on my skull as he cradles the back of my head, keeping my face above the water while soaking my hair.
I must still be under the influence of whatever drugs were used for the anesthesia because this doesn’t feel entirely real, especially when I close my eyes to protect them from stray drops of water. It’s as if I’m in a dream, one in which nothing matters but the warm pleasure of his touch, the soothing comfort of his tenderness. Everything about this should feel wrong, repellent, but instead, I feel like a pampered pet as he lifts my head out of the water and applies shampoo to my wet strands, then rubs the lather into the roots, his fingers exerting just the right amount of pressure as his short fingernails gently scratch my skull.
It’s the best head rub I’ve ever gotten, and it’s all I can do not to beg for more when, after a few blissful minutes, he deems my hair sufficiently lathered and guides my head back into the water.
Thankfully, it’s not over. He applies conditioner to my hair next and rubs it into the roots as well. I’d tell him that’s the wrong way to do it, but I’m enjoying the experience too much to care that my hair will lie flat tomorrow and will get greasy faster. The latter might even be a plus if it incentivizes him to do this again soon.
“Dip your head back in,” he orders huskily, and I oblige as he runs his fingers through my strands, rinsing off the conditioner and detangling them in the process.
He’s good at this, so good he’s either a natural or he’s had some practice.
A sharp stab of jealousy catches me off-guard. I open my eyes, the warm lassitude engulfing me fading as I glare up at him, my head still half-submerged in the water.
How many women has he done this with?
How many have known the bone-melting pleasure of his ministrations?
“What’s wrong, zaychik?” His dark eyebrows pull together as he helps me sit up. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I know I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t help it. “You’ve done this for a lot of women, haven’t you?”
He looks taken aback for a second. Then a wickedly sensual smile spreads across his face. “Not a lot, no. You’re the only one, in fact.”
“Oh.” Now I feel like an idiot. “Never mind then. I just…”
I’m about to close my eyes and slide back into the water to hide my mortification when he gently grasps my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“But even if that weren’t the case,” he says softly, “every other woman is in the past. You’re the only one for me going forward. Just keep in mind, zaychik”—he leans in so close I can see the forest-green flecks in the rich amber of his irises—“I’m the only one for you now as well. No other man will ever touch you. You’re mine as much as I’m yours.”
I stare into those hypnotic eyes, enthralled and terrified by the possessive intensity in them. He means it, I can tell. For whatever reason, he’s decided we belong together, and there’s nothing I can say or do that will alter that conviction—a conviction that would be dangerous even if the man himself weren’t the embodiment of darkness.