Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
When I glance back, he’s looking at me with a mixture of awe and surprise.
“What?” I ask, immediately self-conscious.
“I just…” His words trail off, his voice husky.
“Just what?”
He swallows. “Sometimes it feels like I’m dreaming.”
I look away so he doesn’t see my eyes watering.
He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. We drive in what I have to admit is amiable silence. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and bright out. I roll the window down, the wind ruffling my hair. Without a word, his hand comes to rest on my thigh.
“How far away are we?”
“Not far. We could walk there if I wanted to, but I want to drive today.”
“Why?”
“This is why,” he says, tightening his grip on my thigh. “I sometimes feel like I'm in a dream. I'm going to blink, and you’ll be gone. It's just hard to believe that you're actually… here.”
His mouth opens as if to say something else, but then he thinks better of it.
Meanwhile, I am trying my best to get my shit together.
I'm going to marry him. We know what this means in our families. I will not ever truly belong to Viktor Romanov until I submit my will and my heart. And neither of those will ever happen.
Still, I’m not immune to the connection between us, that erotic vibe that makes me want to be closer to him. I'm not immune to being treated like I am the absolute focus of someone's desire. I am not immune to being loved.
Love me? How can he? He doesn’t really know me.
Then why does it feel like he does?
“You want to listen to some music?”
“Yeah. Whatever you want.”
It seems like that’s going to be a theme between us.
Whatever I want to eat. Whatever I want at the wedding. Whatever I want to do… except walk away.
I flip through the different stations, trying to find something to listen to. Nothing seems right, fitting. I shut it off and look out the window.
I can’t stop thinking about him touching me. His touch is possessive, his thumb gently pressing against my skin, his fingers firm.
“I don't think I can ever be who you want me to be,” I blurt out, feeling unexpectedly emotional. Why do I feel this way? I don't want to be who he wants me to be. I want to be my own person.
Why did I just say that out loud?
“And who do I want you to be?” he asks in a tone that suggests he thinks I have no idea.
“Submissive. Docile. You want me to have your kids, be a homemaker, or whatever the hell. You want me not to have a mind or will of my own.”
His muscles tense, and his eyes stay focused on the road, but his hand on my thigh suddenly feels heavier.
“Is that really what you think I want?”
I swallow. Is it? Or is that just what I’m telling myself so I can keep my defenses up?
“Of course. What else would a man like you want? Sex? Well, you'll have that, but I like that too.” Okay, that sounded petulant. Borderline bratty. I hold my chin up so he doesn’t get any ideas or solidify his position on my brattiness.
“It doesn't matter what I tell you. You've already made up your mind about what I want, haven't you?”
Have I?
“No,” I lie. “I want to hear you say it. Do you think I’m so ignorant that I don’t listen to what someone has to say, and I make up my mind before they speak?”
Maybe I do. Damn it.
He blows out a breath, doing that thing where he strokes his thumb on my bare skin. The touch is almost platonic and gentle. But it never ceases to make my heart race, and whatever reservations I had about the two of us burn to ash.
“I’ve only wanted one thing my entire life that I can remember, Lydia.”
I give him a sidelong look, my heart hammering in my chest. My hand rests atop his on my leg, and I don't remember moving it there. I know what he's going to say before he does.
“What?”
“You, Lydia. You are all I’ve ever wanted. I know that's hard for you to understand; it might even scare you. But eventually, I hope you will understand.” He strokes his thumb along my thigh again, and I don’t understand why my eyes are watering. It’s just a normal possessive thing to say… isn’t it?
“Oh, you’re just saying that,” I say teasingly. “You really do care about what I do and how I behave. Obviously, you’ve shown me that.”
He shrugs a massive shoulder. “Baby, you want to skydive, paint the house purple, or become a circus performer, I don't care. I literally don’t give a shit about any of that. I know that I want you, and I want you safe. Every single goddamn thing I do is for that. No more, no less. Even my home? I barely decorate it because I don’t care. Once we’re married, you can pick out a place to go and I’m there.”