Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I hold onto the edge of the sink with one hand and work my body harder with the other, my mind playing an endless reel of me with Nicolai. Beneath him, Straddling him. Over his lap.
The bathroom is filled with billows of steam as I throw my head back and climax, stifling the noise so he doesn't hear. Blissful release washes through me. I'm panting, easing myself back to the present when I hear a sound just on the other side of the door. He’s right there. He heard me.
I turn to the door and place my palm on the smooth wood, then my forehead. I close my eyes. Now that momentary ecstasy has abated, a sort of emptiness fills me. I don't want to chase my pleasure alone. And I want more. I want him.
I love you, Nicolai, I think in silent adulation.
I'd give him anything he wanted.
I step into the shower. It feels so good to stand under the hot water. I let it run over my head, my face, down my back and body, but it isn't hot enough. I want it scalding, to burn the memory of the man I cannot have from my mind and heart.
Chapter 7
Nicolai
The pounding of the shower can't drown out the sound of her crying. I stand on the other side. I want to break this door down and go to her, join her in the shower and hold her to me. Kiss away her tears and promise her I'll keep her safe, that she doesn't have to cry. Tell her she's been so brave.
But I don't. I stand on the other side, absorbing the sounds of her tears. It hurts worse than any beating I've ever taken, any fight I've ever lost, any injury I've sustained.
It fucking kills.
I'm in the bathroom before I even realize what I'm doing. It's such a big room, she doesn't even realize I'm in here at first. The shower is filled with steam but I can make out her body, leaning up against the tile with her head on her arm.
Hearing her crying is one thing. Seeing her cry is another.
And how can I blame her? She's been through so much. So fucking much, the poor girl.
I should get out of here before she realizes I'm in here. My hand's on the doorknob to leave, when she looks up at me. I freeze, holding her gaze through the fog.
"Nicolai," she says brokenly.
Going to her isn't a conscious choice. I can't control this anymore. I walk to her across the tiles and she glides the shower door open. I step into the shower still wearing the towel slung about my waist like that will stop a damn thing. She's stark naked, of course.
Khristos.
She's more beautiful than I ever imagined.
My breath catches in my lungs as I let my gaze wander uninhibited over her body, taking in every fucking majestic curve and slope of her perfect skin. The fullness of her breasts, dotted with dusky pink nipples I long to taste. The slopes of her hips and gently rounded belly, and full, creamy thighs. The towel is useless. I'm so hard, my erection pushes the damn sodden fabric aside, making her bring her hand to her mouth.
"You shouldn't be in here," she whispers.
"I heard you crying," I reply, as if that explains everything.
And then she's in my arms and her head is on my shoulder, blazing hot water pelting us as I hold her to me.
"Ne plach'," I tell her. Don't cry. "It will be okay."
But now that I'm holding her, now that she feels safe, she comes undone and sobs against my chest. I let her, absorbing her pain, her fears, her troubles. She needs this release. After a while, she calms.
"Did you wash, yet?" I ask her.
She looks up at me and smiles. "What? Why?"
I give her hair a gentle tug. "Answer me."
She shakes her head. I nod, take a washcloth from the shelf beside the shower, and lather it up. "Let me," I tell her. I need to keep my hands occupied, so I don't do what I long to. I run the washcloth over her shoulders, her back, over the curve of her gorgeous ass, and between her legs. I swallow hard, aware of the way her breathing is slow and labored. After I've soaped every inch of her, I take the small bottle of shampoo, tip some in my hand, and massage it into her thick, gorgeous hair, then gently tip her head back and rinse it. Her eyes are closed, her face dotted with drops of water, when she whispers, "There's only one thing I want for my birthday."
"What's that?" I ask, and I realize right then I'd give her fucking anything.
"Just a kiss."
Just a kiss, like it’s an innocent request, when we both know it’s fucking dynamite.