Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Because I’m a fucking grown-up, that’s how. Of course I can do this.
She plants her hands on her hips and stares at me. “What are our options? I could go sleep on the toddler bed in Zoya’s room, and we could wake up Luka and make him sleep in bed with you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m the one being ridiculous? You just suggested sleeping on cement.”
“Fine. All right then. There’s a duffel bag of clothes—generic leggings, shorts, a tee, and such—in our bathroom there.”
I point to the bathroom. “Go get ready,” I grumble at her.
“Go get ready,” she throws over her shoulder like a dare, all sass.
And I swear to god, it takes every ounce of control I have not to drag her back by that smart little mouth and put her over my knee. She’s always been a brat. When she wasn’t mine, I let it slide.
But now?
Now I can’t stop picturing how she’d look with my handprint on her ass.
And she’s still not mine.
I fucking hate that I love brats.
She’s in front of the mirror, twisting her hair up, spine arched like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.
I grab the clothes just to have something to hold that isn’t her. Just to keep my hands from acting on instinct.
Is she baiting me? Of all the women in my life, I’d never say Ruthie was a flirt. She’s too snarky, too independent.
But I was married to her sister, a little voice in the back of my head reminds me…
She turns, catches my stare, and smirks. “Oh, relax. I know you’re picturing me naked, but I’ll make sure the lights are off. For your… comfort.” She sways a bit, wobbly on her feet.
Jesus.
Ruthie’s still tipsy.
“You’re drunk, Ruthie. Drink some water and get your ass in bed.”
“I’m not drunk.” She rolls her eyes at me, and I’m losing a grip on my self-control.
“You’re one more bratty word from getting thrown over my knee,” I threaten her. “Drunk or not, I’ll fucking sober you up.”
That gets her attention. Her mouth parts, and she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But her eyes flare, and her voice drops.
“Getting kinky on me, Vadka?” she asks. And then she grins. Fucking grins.
“Ruthie,” I growl and flex my hand. I can already feel the sting on my palm.
Mariah wasn’t into any of that, and I—
I can’t think about Mariah.
I turn away as Ruthie grabs her stuff and heads for the bathroom, mouthing off at me under her breath as she goes. I grit my teeth and take a step toward her.
What the hell am I doing?
She’s not mine. She might deserve a good spanking, but I can’t go there. She’d either slice my throat or kiss me—and neither of those are viable options.
Jesus.
I hear her fumbling around in the bathroom when my exhaustion hits me like a two-by-four. I’ve barely slept today. My eyes are sandpaper-dry, my throat aches, and my head is pounding from lack of sleep. I need to sleep so fucking bad. I’m gonna sleep like the dead when I hit the bed, whether she’s beside me or not.
I grab a pair of boxers—don’t sleep in anything more than that—strip out of my clothes and fold them on top of the dresser.
The first couple of weeks after Mariah died, I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I threw myself into the gym, the one thing I could still control. The burn made my own pain easier to bear, if only for a little while.
And the results? Not bad. I’d gotten soft with marriage and parenthood. It feels good to get stronger.
I strip off my shirt. Step out of my pants. I figure I’ve got a few seconds to get dressed while Ruthie’s still in the bathroom.
Just as I’m stepping into my boxers, the door swings open.
“Hey, do you have—”
I spin around so she doesn’t see my dick, and instead, flash her my ass. Great.
“Nice ass,” she says. “Tell your trainer that whatever he’s doing with your glutes, it’s working.” She giggles, and it’s so fucking adorable, I smile.
“Just wondering if you had something that resembles a comb or a hairbrush,” she says, running her fingers through her tangled hair. “Look at this mess.”
She’s beautiful. Disheveled. Windswept. Her eyes are bright. And there’s something about her—always something—that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets every damn thing that ever hurt.
I need another fucking drink.
“I’ll find one,” I say. “I’m getting another drink too. Do you want anything?”
"I had enough," she says. “And wait, there’s a brush in the bottom of this bag.”
I decide bed will be a better option than another drink. So I peel back the covers to what is, thankfully, a very large bed, and I lie down. God, it feels good to lie down. Every muscle in my body is tense and aching, and my whole body needs rest. I’m suddenly aware of my lack of clothing.