Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
As I turned from little girl to young woman, my fear became awe. He came back for only a short time after prison, but it was enough to cement within me a belly-twisting crush that paraded through my dreams ever since.
He had the kind of face that told you life had not been easy. But for all the fraught furrows of his brow and darkness in his eyes, he was beautiful in his mysterious and brooding way.
He went away for many years, paying some price—for what, I do not know. I am not naïve about the business of the Sabato family. Drugs, guns, gambling, and loan sharks and who knows what else.
It is what took him away to the walls of prison, then drove him north to never return even as our family flailed and faltered, needing his strength and guidance. The business is also what killed my mother and my stepfather, and I will never follow in the footsteps of those Sabatos who came before me.
Thankfully, my grandfather did his time and changed his ways. That is why he retreated here to the north, staying far away from the life of crime that sent him into exile. He learned his lesson and for that, I love him even more.
I do miss Chicago. The art, the shopping, having friends, being around civilization. But there are perks here as well. I love our reindeer.
The slower pace of life.
Time to read as many books as I want and a library that rivals the one from Beauty and the Beast.
Then, there’s the zero-crime rate even in Carriage Town, the biggest city within a thousand miles. It’s quaint and lost in time with its clock tower and horse-drawn sleigh rides.
And then there’s being with Papa. Every. Single. Day.
His hair has drifted toward silver these last years from the dark sky and silver moon colors of my childhood, but the contrast with the deeper lines on his face and the magnificence of his icy blue eyes only makes him more appealing.
Why is it that men grow sexier and more attractive as they age? It’s unfair, but none of that seems to matter to my feminine places. They all react to him with heaving breaths and tightening strings that feel ready to snap at the slightest pressure.
How many times have I imagined the weight of his hard-muscled body bearing down on me? Forcing itself between my thighs as his manhood invades my untouched wetness?
As frustrated tears mix with the hot water, I work my fingers between my folds, begging for relief but to no avail.
I finish rinsing my hair, then squirt the conditioner Papa orders special for us into my palm and work it through before turning the streaming water to the coldest setting. I take the shocking pain down into my core, hoping it will freeze away all the wrong inside me and leave me weary enough to dampen my desires for at least a few hours.
Once I’m rinsed and chilled down to my marrow, I twist the chrome handle until the water stops, letting it drip from my goosebump-covered body. I run my hands down the ripples of my ribs, resting them on the points of my hips, which are more accentuated in the last months as I struggle with every bite of food, the ever-present voice in my head telling me every great dancer must be flawless.
Not just thin, but impeccable. Every instructor and dance teacher since I started ballet at five years old has shamed me for my love of food; and somewhere along the line, I turned every morsel into an enemy. Food became my nemesis and a function only to keep me fueled enough to push through another practice. Another day.
I reach for the fluffy white towel sitting on the antique table with the Carrera marble top that matches the counters, floor and shower walls and swipe it down my chest and arms, then squeeze the water from my hair. My skin warms, anticipating the reaction my body will have when Lucy and I enter the dining room for lunch where Grandpa will inevitably be poised in his place at the head of the table. More than likely dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, or a black suit, white shirt and red tie.
He’s a contrast in his sharpness and flickers of softness. He’s pulled away from me more and more this last year, almost in diametric opposition to my growing attraction to him.
“Carina!” Lucy’s voice cuts through the remaining steam in the mammoth en-suite bathroom as I wrap the white terrycloth towel around my body, then flip my wet hair over my head and spin another towel around, securing it in place. “You have five minutes to get dressed or we will be late to lunch. Grandpa does not take kindly to lateness.”