Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 70797 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70797 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I placed the gun underneath my pillows where I slept, knowing he would give me no warning before he walked through the front door. He wouldn’t tell me he was back in town until he marched into my apartment and announced it.
I had to be ready.
I was sitting in my living room having dinner with the painting on the easel next to the window when I heard footsteps outside my front door. I stopped eating and listened, my heart beating hard in my chest. I knew it was him before I saw him, before I even heard him.
I could just feel him.
He must have picked the lock because it took him a few seconds before he opened the door and welcomed himself inside.
It annoyed me because he knew I was home. All he had to do was knock.
He stepped inside, dressed in all black. His heavy frame thudded against the floor as he moved, and his crystal-blue eyes landed on me once he was inside the living room. He stared at me with various emotions, different intensities. He seemed angry, but he also seemed desperate.
I wasn’t nervous because of the way he was staring at me. I was nervous because of what I was about to do.
I knew it was just my paranoia, but it seemed like he knew my plan.
He turned his gaze to the painting and stilled as he stared at it. Then he crossed the room to get a better look at it. His back was to me, and he crossed his arms over his chest.
I stared at his shoulders, watching them rise and fall as he breathed. I wondered what he was thinking, if he loved it or connected with it. Was it exactly what he wanted? Was it the perfect image to remember me by? He was unpredictable, so he could snap it in half at any moment.
Time passed, and he still didn’t move. Not a single word was spoken. He kept the same stance as he stared at it, his entire body still with the exception of his breathing. Minutes trickled by until half an hour came and went.
Then a full hour passed.
And he continued to stare.
I went to his side, staring at the same image he was staring at. I took a peek at his face, hoping to grasp his thoughts based on his appearance. But his blue eyes were unreadable, and his jawline was as hard as ever. He wore an expression of constant anger. The only time that ever changed was when he was being a smartass or he was thrusting inside me. Otherwise, he was always this concrete wall.
We still hadn’t spoken a word to each other since he walked through the door. He didn’t ask why I was there instead of his apartment, and he didn’t tell me how his hit in Russia went. He didn’t make a smartass comment about missing me. He didn’t kiss me either. We seemed to have a conversation without words.
Like being in the same room together was enough for us to communicate.
When other fifteen minutes passed and he kept staring at the painting, there was no doubt he loved it. He wouldn’t stare so long unless it made him feel something, stimulated his brain as well as his heart.
He finally turned his head my way, looking at me head-on.
But there still wasn’t a single word.
I hated feeling this way. I hated the way my knees got a little weak when he looked at me that way. I hated myself for feeling a little relief knowing he came back from his mission alive. I hated feeling the slight ache in my lips because he hadn’t kissed me yet. I hated the way I wanted to go to the bedroom, and not because I wanted to put a bullet in his brain.
How did I feel all this for a man I despised?
What he did to me was unforgivable. I couldn’t forget that. I never would.
But human emotion was complicated. My painting alone was proof of that.
He suddenly pulled his sweater over his head, taking the shirt with it. His muscled frame came into view, the cuts and lines of separation in his muscles obvious even when it was dark. With powerful shoulders that could carry the weight of the world and a chest that was harder than concrete, he was built like a tank. He took that bullet without flinching because he was immune to pain. He didn’t need a bulletproof vest because a gun couldn’t perforate his hard exterior.
He moved into me, his hands cupping my face gently as his mouth took my kiss. His lips pressed against mine as one hand snaked to the back of my head. He guided me into him, kissing me like it was the first time he ever had the opportunity.