Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Sexually depleted, I fall asleep somewhere in the low two hundreds.
By the time I wake again, the high-hanging sun is streaming through the cracks in the curtains, and the thump of my tired muscles relishes the coolness of an unslept-on pillow when I roll over to check the time. The sheets are cold where Mikhail slept, and the silence of the room feels heavy.
My throat grows scratchy when I learn it is almost noon. I’ve never slept in so late, and the bar was once open until 2 a.m. during its heydays.
After a quick stretch, I throw off the covers and slip out of bed. My stomach grumbles loudly, reminding me of the minuscule meal I consumed before burning off far more calories with a late-night swim.
As I rub my eyes, the events of last night flood back in. The spooning, the touching, the way my ignorance didn’t stop Mikhail from pulling me back onto his half of the mattress when he returned to bed. They all flood back in and cause me to shiver like the heating isn’t at a ghastly setting.
I don’t regret what happened last night, but I need to confront Mikhail about it. Mikhail and I crossed a boundary, and though I’d like to ignore it, I can’t.
As I make my way downstairs, the busy hum of the Zelenolsk estate gobbles up my footsteps. A hive of activity occurs around me, but none of them are occurring by the man I’m seeking.
My eyes don’t land on Mikhail until I enter the kitchen. He is seated at the breakfast nook, scrolling through messages on his phone. He appears well-rested, as if an orgasm solves everything.
He came twice in a matter of hours. I guess his theory could be valid. I feel extremely light on my feet, and I only floated between the clouds once.
Needing caffeine before I wrestle the obvious elephant in the room, I plaster a smile onto my face before making a beeline for the brimming coffee pot.
“Morning,” I greet halfway there to anyone listening.
Several pairs of eyes shift to me, but only one offers a vocal greeting.
“Morning,” Mikhail parrots, his voice strained as he drags his hooded gaze down my body.
I’m still wearing what I went to bed in last night—sticky underwear and all.
Mikhail’s eyes, now narrowed, return to my face when I say, “Before you say anything… these are shorts.” I point to the extremely indecent hem of my pajama shorts before hooking my thumb to my shirt. “This top is cotton. So, technically, I’m not breaking your highly irrational dress code.”
He looks confused. Utterly and wholly confused.
Still desperate for caffeine, I fetch a mug from an overhead cupboard like I’ve lived here for years before helping myself to the coffee in a recently replenished pot, horrifying the staff paid to answer Mikhail’s every whim.
I doubt they’ve ever seen a Dokovic make themselves a cup of coffee. My new surname may only be temporary, but my dislike of being fussed over would be foreign to them.
While nursing a murky black brew with two generous sugar clumps, I twist to face Mikhail. Even with the coffee scorching hot, I take a sip, needing to use the mug to hide my smile about his miffed expression.
Half my booty popped out the bottom of my shorts when I rose to my tippy-toes to gather a mug. The lusty gleam from the gardener trimming the hedges near the kitchen window announces this, not to mention how scalded my skin became when a heated glare projected from Mikhail’s half of the enormous space during my stretch.
With mouthfuls of dark brew settled in my stomach, I attempt to relieve the confusion not even a rueful glare could budge. “You said any hems on the skirts and dresses I wear should be knee length and that shirts need to be made from non-see-through material.” I highlight my shorts again. “Shorts.” Next, I showcase my spaghetti-strap top, which is poorly concealing my erect nipples. “Cotton. Both Mikhail-approved attire.”
He grins, and I fight like hell not to squeeze my thighs together.
Why does he have to be so damn handsome?
This would be so much easier if he were ugly.
“I’m glad you paid enough attention to my jealous rant to put thought into your outfit selection. It shows you’re coming into this a little more open-minded than you were yesterday. I appreciate the effort.”
What he really wants to say is that he’s impressed by my submissiveness when possible future orgasms are on the table. He just took the less confronting route. It is a tactic all nice guys use.
Instead of handing me a completed puzzle to marvel at, Mikhail gives me a solo piece I’ll have no chance of deciphering without his help. “But I think you should reconsider. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit outside, and they’re forecasting snow.”