Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes at Semyon. “Semyon,” I say warningly.
“Mmm?”
I gulp. “Did you beat up the asshole who left me the terrible review?”
“Well, not directly…”
“Semyon!”
He frowns, a crease forming between his brows. “No one treats my wife that way, Anya,” he says, as if that’s the natural order of things. To him, maybe it is.
No. Not maybe.
I’m quiet for long minutes. "And all this time," I say in a whisper, “I thought you hated me."
"Hated you? Are you fucking kidding me?" He shakes his head. “I’m half-tempted to pull this car over right now just to put you over my knee for that.”
I stare. His eyes dart to the side of the road, as if looking for a place to actually park. My pulse spikes. The tension between us is palpable.
“Um. Let’s save that for later,” I whisper. “We have work to do. Also, I’m…sober now.”
“I’m aware.” I watch as he breathes in through his nose and out again. Finally, he nods.
“I don’t hate you and never have. I distanced myself because I didn’t want to hurt you.” His voice lowers. “There’s a difference.”
In silence, we turn down my street. He parks the car. “Now, baby, let’s get this over with so I can get you back home to myself.”
I turn to him and let my head fall to his shoulder.
No one treats my wife that way.
At first, he freezes as if he doesn’t remember what to do.
Then he opens his arms. I tuck my head into the crook of his neck, and his arms come around me.
“Do you like that, Anya? Does that feel nice? If it does, I need to know. I need to learn how to… comfort you.” His voice lowers to a half growl as he welcomes me closer, his arms tightening. “C’mere.”
I blink back hot tears, my voice a shaky whisper. “Yeah. I like this.” I smile. “You’re doing great. Just like you did the other night.”
He strokes his hand down the length of my back, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “I like that too.” He sounds almost surprised.
The moment feels fragile, like a dream I’m afraid to wake from. I blink back the tears and sit up.
We have work to do.
“Let’s do this.”
“Yeah,” he says in a husky whisper. “Let’s go. But we can come back to this whenever you want.”
I can’t help it. I lean in and kiss his prickly, stubbled cheek before I sit back in my seat and let him come and open my door for me.
Then I remember we’re going to my home and how I hate that he’s here with me.
When Semyon looks around my apartment, I feel something tighten in my stomach. It's not the first time he's been here, but I wonder if he's forgotten—
"You did a beautiful job here, Anya. I remember what it was like growing up, and I can see that you put your touch everywhere."
I could be hormonal, but I think that might be one of the nicest things anybody's ever said to me. There are very few people in this world who know your history—your siblings, your parents, a childhood friend. But Semyon… he's one of them. He knows. It's one of the reasons why I've never been able to trust him.
"Thank you," I say, turning my back to him so he doesn’t see the tears shining in my eyes. What is wrong with me? I’m an emotional basket case.
"I remember every detail of this place, and I can see how hard you’ve worked."
I don’t even know if Semyon has a clue what he's saying to me or how it's making me feel. He's so detached, so clinical.
I don’t think he sees things the way other people do, and hell, if that isn’t one of the things I love most about him.
“His phone is in my bedroom.”
Semyon frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets but doesn’t respond. He trails behind me, taking in every detail as if staking the place.
When I get to the room, I open my top drawer filled with what my mother would’ve called my "unmentionables." I pull it open and rifle through the soft satin and lace in shades of pink, white, and black… one of the few things that did not belong to my mother. These are all mine.
I like wearing sexy underwear and bras; they make me feel pretty, special—almost like I have a little secret no one else knows. Ophelia’s family owns a clothing business, and whenever they discounted items, she’d bring me in. I’d pick out something here and there, and her father would exchange them for loaves of bread and muffins instead.
"It’s right—" That’s when I see Semyon staring. I freeze mid-sentence and give him a curious look. "What?"
"I take it back," he says in a rough whisper.
"Take what back?"
"I told you not to bring your clothes back. That drawer… Fucking empty it. I want to see you in every one of those when we get home."