Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
“That’s it, beautiful.” I rub her clit again, slowly now.
The timer dings.
I kiss her neck and ease out, grabbing a couple napkins to clean us up.
She sobs out her breath, dropping to her forearms on the counter, like she’s not capable of standing.
“Are you light-headed, kotyonok?” I clean her with the napkin.
She draws in a long slow breath. “I’m okay.”
I throw away the napkins and pick up her pajama shorts from the floor, crouching down to help her step into them.
She steadies herself with a hand on my head. After the shorts are up, I nip, then plant a kiss between her legs, lifting my gaze to hers.
She releases my head and takes a step back. She might let me satisfy her, but post-coital intimacy is still not on the table.
I get up and wash my hands then pull the tray out of the toaster oven and slide the warm perogies onto a plate. “If I had to pick a favorite Russian food, it would be these.” I tell her, offering the plate. “Try one.”
She reaches for it then stops herself. “With my fingers or a fork?”
I pick it up with my fingers and hold it to her lips. “Who cares?” I murmur, as she opens for it. “You’re in a dark kitchen in the middle of the night. There’s nothing to get right or wrong, kitten.” I already know she’s the type who wants to get everything right. There’s too much nervous control in her life. I had to blindfold her at the club to get her to tune into her me and her body.
She bites into the meat pie and moans. “Oh my God, this is good,” she says with her mouth full, catching the flakes of pastry on her lips with her fingertips. “What is that spice?”
“Dill.”
“Dill?” She asks incredulously, holding the pie eye-level and looking at its innards.
“Beef. Potato. Cheese. And dill. It’s perfect, yes?”
She takes another bite like she’s suddenly ravenous. “So good,” she murmurs.
“Come here.” I lead her by the elbow to one of the barstools on the other side of the breakfast bar. “You’re allowed to sit when you eat.”
“I’m allowed? What else will you allow, master?” Her words are tart, but there’s no edge to them. She darts a quick glance at me like she remembered too late that she has called me Master before.
And enjoyed it.
I pour a glass of milk and set it in front of her then lean on the counter, watching her eat. She polishes off three perogies and drinks her milk.
When she looks up, she holds my gaze. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to contact you, Ravil.” I sense the sincerity in her voice, and I almost believe her, until I hear her pitch. “But you’ve found me now. I won’t try to keep our baby from you. Just let me go. We’ll work out a custody arrangement. Fifty-fifty if that’s what you want.”
I know it’s a huge concession. She doesn’t want me in our child’s life at all. But I’m not biting. I shake my head. “We’re not negotiating, Counselor. You missed the window for that. I’m driving now, and you’re going to be a good girl and do everything I ask.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can’t—”
“Ah, but I can. I am, kitten. Get used to it.”
She gets up from the stool and stalks away, straight to the front door.
Cute.
She reaches for the handle.
She wouldn’t make it out. Even if I let her walk through this door, I have a man at the elevator and another street-level. She’d never get out of the building unless I let her. Still, I snap, “Don’t” with every ounce of authority I have.
She freezes, hand wrapped around the knob.
“This is your only warning.”
I see the shiver run through her.
To help her save face, I go and collect her, grasping her elbow and guiding her back to my room. She doesn’t say anything, but I sense a storm brewing inside her.
Not good for the baby.
Or her.
I don’t mind her frustrated, but I can’t have her stressed. Kidnapping a woman pregnant with my child might not have been my smartest move.
I close the door softly behind us, and she shakes free of my grasp. “Calm yourself, kitten. It’s not so bad. What’s making you panic?”
I flip on a lamp to see her face. It’s flushed with anger, and she’s breathing quickly.
“My life!” she throws her arms up in the air.
“You will work remotely.”
She shakes her head. “My parents.”
I nod. “You visit them on Saturdays.”
She goes still. “You’ve done your homework.”
I shrug. “I like to be prepared. Your father is a partner at the firm where you work. He had a stroke recently.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “If I don’t go to see him Saturday, my mom will know something is wrong. If I tell her I’m on bed rest, she’ll come to the apartment.”