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)
He leaves before I can answer as warmth floods my chest.
It’s the way it is now. Comfortable. Familiar. I don’t ask questions about what he does, unless they directly pertain to me, and thankfully most of the time they don’t.
I let myself exhale the tension of the day. I haven’t had time to really process what happened, but I can still feel my shoulders up around my ears. I open my accounting software and prepare to find the flashing red notices for the bills that are usually overdue.
Except—they’re paid. Every single one. Not just paid for the month, but in full.
Semyon.
My hands shake as I go through my emails, scrolling quickly to see what I need, when I note an email from the school. Shit. The field trip permission slip was due today, and I—
Transportation secured. Permission forms received. Please remember to send fees in an envelope with your student.
I shake my head. I know I didn’t do this. I stare at the kitchen door, bewildered.
Did Semyon…?
I swallow hard and close my laptop.
I take care of what’s mine.
I’m his. Semyon Kopolov’s. I walk in a sort of daze to where Stefan’s backpack hangs off the hook by the front door. I smile to myself when I remember the times he’d fling it off and let it land with a thud and my husband would calmly remind him that wasn’t where his bag belonged before he made him try again. He’s learning.
I unzip the bag, expecting to find the usual chaos of crumpled papers and empty snack wrappers, but instead—everything’s in place. Tidied. And right there in the front pocket is a plain white envelope, labeled in Semyon’s bold, signature slant.
Fees – Stefan Borozov
My heart stumbles as I tuck it back in and zip the bag up. What’s that coat hanging next to the backpack? I do a quick check. It’s a high-end, bright-blue winter coat in Stefan’s size.
I close my eyes, a lump in my throat. I’m so used to doing everything alone. Always the one to keep tabs on details, to plan and juggle, to scrape enough together to make my brother’s childhood normal. Who knew that of all the things this man could do to unravel me, it would be this? Not just his dangerous touch or stolen kisses, the way he owns my body and claims me as his wife. No… Helping me bear the mental load.
Of course he would. Semyon’s a big brother, Rafail’s right-hand man. He practically raised Rodion, Yana, and Zoya right alongside him. Taking care of things is what he does.
I shut off the kitchen light, determined to find him. He may have reminded me to get some sleep tonight, but I need to thank him. In person. Thoroughly.
The door to his office is halfway open, his voice low and husky as he takes the phone call. I barely even hear a word he says. He looks up at me, his expression unreadable but tinged with surprise as I shut and lock the door behind me and casually, slowly, begin to undress.
He shakes his head and bites his lip, the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen him do. My jeans fall to the floor in a puddle around my feet. My top next, followed by my panties and bra. I even pull my hair out of its messy bun and toss the little hair tie to the floor with my clothes. He doesn’t speak. His jaw tightens, his throat works, and I can practically feel the heat rolling off him as my shirt hits the floor.
“Anya,” he says softly. Warning.
I press my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”
I sidle over to him, stark naked. He pushes his chair back and hits mute, as someone drones on with locations and numbers and times, something about Dublin and Cork. I slide onto his lap and kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.
“I’m not sure for what,” he groans. “But you’re welcome.”
I kiss my way down to his jaw, down the length of his neck, to where his shirt’s unbuttoned at the top. I lick his collarbone. My fingers knot in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.
With no preamble and a stifled groan, he slips two fingers inside me, curling them just right. A delicious shudder rolls through me.
He stands without warning and stabs at his phone. “I have to go.” The phone clatters to the floor as he unbuckles his belt in one smooth motion, and in the next breath, I feel him pressing against me—thick, hard, already leaking into me.
“Do you want my cock, Anya?” he asks. “Is that why you came in here?”
“I always want your cock,” I say on a half-whine, aching for him, arching my back to tell him wordlessly to take me. “Always.”
He drives into me in one brutal, vivid stroke, knocking the breath from me. He fucks me with relentless thrusts, his grip bruising my thighs, his teeth at my throat. “You’re so fucking perfect. You’re everything.”