Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 100796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“I’ve already got everything out.”
“You don’t seem like a guy who cooks for a girl after he fucks her.”
He sneered. “You’re right. I don’t.” Had I just . . . offended him? He closed the carton of eggs and put it back in the fridge.
I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t like mushrooms.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re fucking weird.” He poured the eggs into the heated pan.
I’d already eaten, but watching him cook made me hungry. I rose from the piano and drifted closer, my gaze fixated on the guy who seemed to command the kitchen as well as he did my body. He lifted the skillet off the heat and flipped the omelet over in the pan with a clean jerk.
My mouth hung open, and Vasilije’s eyebrow arrowed up. “Whitney taught me how to cook,” he explained.
Anger sliced down through my chest. Who was that? An ex-girlfriend?
I didn’t understand my instant reaction. I couldn’t be jealous. It wasn’t even possible. My tone had a too-bright edge as I overcompensated. “Who’s Whitney?”
“My chef. She does all the shopping for the week. If you want something, you can tell her tomorrow when she’s here.”
“Oh.” That couldn’t be relief in my system, because I wasn’t jealous. My gaze fell to his hands, and I watched him slide the omelet onto a plate, folding the egg perfectly onto itself. “That looks good.”
He set his hands on the counter. “If I made you one without mushrooms, will you pick at it like a fucking bird, or will you actually eat?”
I turned, opened the fridge, and pulled the carton of eggs out. “I’ll do my best.”
He didn’t smile, but I could see he was pleased. I watched him craft my omelet with the same technique, and eagerly took the plate when it was passed to me. It tasted great.
We stood at the counter and ate, all while morning sunlight glowed from the windows. It was too bright and warm in the house to talk about what was going to happen tonight, so we stayed silent. In addition to cooking like a man who’d been trained by a chef, he cleaned like one, too. I put the produce away while he handled the dishes, and when it was done, he set his hands on the low-hanging waistband of his sweatpants.
“Upstairs,” he said, flicking his gaze upward. “You can show me how thankful you are for breakfast while we’re in my shower.”
I nodded slowly, accepting whatever he wanted. Part of me didn’t mind. There might have been a sliver of me that was looking forward to it. We took pleasure from each other.
I climbed the steps, went down the hall, and into his bedroom, listening to his footsteps as he followed me. The bed was unmade and the lumpy comforter was pushed to one side. I’d lost my virginity in that bed, but it looked . . . like any other bed.
His bathroom sink was messy, dotted with whiskers from where he’d trimmed and maintained his scruff. I didn’t wait for his order to do so, and began to tug off my clothes as he started the water running. It was still awkward being naked around him, but I was smart enough to know it gave me an advantage.
Vasilije froze with the shower door halfway open and gaped at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
His eyes weren’t on mine, and I followed his gaze down to the red-purple blotches on my chest. He stared at the marks with fascination. His marks. I quirked an eyebrow. You think that’s something? Wait until you see this.
I tugged off the jeans and underwear, and turned around to show him his handiwork.
“Puši kurac,” he said under his breath.
When I’d gotten dressed this morning, I’d stared in the mirror at the beautiful variety of marks covering my ass. A perfect handprint in purply-blue could be made out on one side.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. His voice was unsteady.
I shrugged. “Sometimes. Mostly when I’m sitting on the bench.”
Because the piano seat was lacquered wood with no cushion. Since I was stark naked, I turned back around to face him, and Vasilije slowly came back to life. He undid the string holding his pants up and they flooded to the floor, making him as naked as I was. His eyes heated as they noted every mark he’d given me.
“When we’re done here,” he said, ushering me toward the shower, “you’ll play me what you have.”
I locked up halfway across the door frame. “What? No, it’s not ready.”
When it was clear I wasn’t going to move, he shoved me inside the tiled area that was almost large enough to call a room. I breathed in the heavy, thick steam and stepped out of the way of the falling water.
“I don’t care,” he said flatly, coming in behind me.
“I told you it might take a while for me to—”