Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
She’d been professionally trained to be the ultimate lay, to be compatible with her Master. She wouldn’t nag, she wouldn’t whine, she’d take any scrap I gave her. I could treat her like a princess and lavish her with everything her heart desired. I could use her and abuse her if I wanted to, not that I would, but if I did stupid shit or acted like a dick, I’d never have to worry she’d leave me for it. I could just take her. She was mine. Here she was, in my bed, curled against me, willing to be mine. Wanting to wear a collar that was akin to wearing a wedding ring but even more permanent.
She’d probably be missing the spark I wanted in a woman, but I couldn’t expect everything now, could I? She’d never shred my heart. She’d never ask for more than I wanted to give.
Almost no one would fault me. Outside of the people at Kruna the only ones who knew were Stan, Tommy, and Zack.
Stan, I didn’t give a shit about his opinion. He got paid to have no opinion.
Zack, I knew he’d look down his nose at me for it and yeah, he’d probably fault me.
But Tommy? Yeah, he’d tell me it was a bad idea. But he’d be a fucking hypocrite because Pop gave him a girl who didn’t even want him and yet he kept her. He got to keep his girl even if she was ill-gotten, given to him out of Pop’s fucked up brand of revenge. Why shouldn’t I keep Felicia?
Tommy’d give me a look and say it was a bad idea and I’d cock an eyebrow at him and then he’d fucking zip it because he’d know he has no room to judge me.
But here I was, determined I was not doing it. I was better than that. But was I?
I pried her off me without waking her and stormed out of the room, smoked two cigarettes, drank three shots of vodka, and then I went and slept like shit on the shitty fuckin’ futon so I could close the door and shut out the world.
I woke up alone. I went looking for him and found the door shut to his spare room so guessed he was in there.
My heart sank. The sun hadn’t yet risen but I wasn’t sleepy any longer, so I padded into the master bathroom and did my business and took a shower and then because my clothes were in the room he was sleeping in and I didn’t wanna wake him I went into his closet and snatched back the flannel pjs I’d worn for just a few hours yesterday.
After a minute checking out some of his other clothes, he had a lot of great suits, I went out to the kitchen and after far too long pondering the notion I finally decided I was capable of making coffee without getting permission first.
Then, again after a long pondering, I decided it would probably be okay if I turned the TV on. It was odd making decisions for myself, even small ones. What to wear, what to watch, what to drink. These things don’t seem so insignificant when you haven’t been able to make those choices for yourself. These things were huge. And Dario Ferrano gave these things to me.
As I was finishing my second cup, watching the news, he came out of the other room and I heard the master bedroom door close as he went in there.
I fingered my collar and closed my eyes, feeling bad about last night and my meltdown. He must’ve thought I was bat shit crazy. If they had seen me behave that way, they’d have … they’d have… I shuddered. I needed to pull myself together.
I heard him. I opened my eyes. He was looking at me while pouring a cup of coffee. I painted my face blank and straightened up my posture and said, “Good morning.”
“Hey.” He eyed me cautiously.
He was in chocolate brown suit pants and was carrying a blazer. The pants were slim fitting. He wore a black shirt, black tie. His hair was wet from the shower and he was freshly shaven. As he walked by and I thought about how delicious he looked. I caught a whiff and he smelled good, too.
He tossed his blazer on a stool and then reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a memo pad and a pen and then started scrawling on it. I stared at his hands, his wrists. He had strong-looking hands. Not rough-looking like someone who works in manual labor, of course, but strong-looking. The knuckles on his right hand were a little bruised from when he’d punched the hole in the bathroom in Thailand.
Looking at his hands took me back to watching him work with his hands transforming a mound of wet sand and making it look like a castle. I saw, in my mind, those hands on my breasts. I swallowed hard. His voice jolted me out of those fantasies.