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)
We pull into the driveway. Luka’s head is bobbing. He’s barely awake.
“Stay here tonight,” I say to Ruthie, and I know how it sounds. Like I’m hitting on her by asking her to stay. But it’s not that. Not this time. “Just tonight. I wanna make sure your place is more secure before you go back, okay?”
“Fine. But if you think we’re snuggling in your bed again, think again.”
There’s a flicker of a smile on her lips.
“Of course not. You’ll be in the guest room. It’s a nice one.”
“I know. Mariah made it that way. She always hoped Mom would come visit.”
But she never did. Not once.
We go inside, and she gets Luka ready for bed while I head to the kitchen.
“You need to check in with Rafail?” she asks, returning, her voice tight, like she’s bracing for something.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’m gonna get ready for bed.”
I glance down. Luka’s already clean, teeth brushed, dressed in his little pajamas and clutching his favorite stuffed animal. She did all of it. Quietly. Efficiently. It’s like having another adult around shifted something heavy off my shoulders I didn’t even know I was carrying.
“Yeah. I’m almost done.”
“Okay,” she says softly. “I’m gonna change into something. I probably have clothes here, don’t I?”
Maybe she does.
She used to be here all the time—when Mariah was here.
I sink onto the couch, and she looks back at me.
“You should change into something more comfortable too,” she says.
She’s right. We put Luka to bed and walk to the guest room together, pretending it’s not intimate. Pretending we’re not thinking about what it feels like to be close. To touch.
“Luka’s asleep,” I tell her quietly. “And you… you’re in trouble.”
“We don’t have that kind of relationship,” she says, but the look in her eyes betrays her. She wants to. God, she wants to. “You think you can tell me what to do?”
“All right,” I say, low and deliberate, as I cross the room. “You get dressed. I’ll go change too. Then you’re going to lay yourself over my lap and take what’s been coming to you.”
She just stands there.
Challenging. Smiling that wicked little smile that says she’s not scared of me—no, she wants me to lose control. Wants to see how far I’ll go.
Dangerous little thing.
“Ruthie,” I warn.
She turns, slow as sin, and bends over the dresser. On purpose. Her ass tilts up—taunting me. Daring me.
That’s when I see it. The way her breath catches. The way her thighs part just slightly. The way her hands tighten around the edge of the wood like she’s bracing.
She’s not resisting. She’s offering herself.
The warning slap I meant to give her turns into something else the moment my palm lands. The sound cracks loud—flesh to flesh. She gasps, then moans.
Fuck.
I’m hard instantly.
I watch the ripple of heat across her skin, the way her spine arches, pushing back for more. So I give her more. Another smack. Then another.
By the fourth, she’s panting. Her legs spread wider, shameless now, her hips rocking forward like she needs the friction. My restraint slips. I can’t stop.
“You think this is a game?” I rasp, my voice rough against her ear as I lean in close. I breathe her in—heat, sweat, need. “You like pushing me, baby?”
She nods, breathless, shameless. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I want you to.”
Fucking hell.
My hand comes down again, harder this time, angled to the crease where her ass meets her thigh. Her whole body jolts—then melts into it. She moans again, and it sounds like a prayer.
“Now tell me,” I murmur, lips against her jaw, “are you going to behave yourself?”
“For now,” she says. Still defiant. Still smiling.
I grin. Dark. Dangerous. “Little brat.”
“If I don’t… will you do that again?” she asks, her voice a tease but trembling at the edges.
I grip her hip, fingers digging in. “You do that again,” I growl, “and I’ll take my belt to your ass.”
She shudders—visibly. Not in fear.
In want.
She scrambles to gather her clothes, but her hands are shaking.
“I’m gonna get dressed in the bathroom,” she says, her voice tight. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, soft and serious, “We need to be careful, Vadka.”
I don’t need her to explain. She’s not talking about the Irish. Or any threat outside this door.
She’s talking about us. This. The edge we’re dancing on.
I strip, shirt first. Then pants, the rush still buzzing in my blood like lightning. Mariah’s phone falls from the pocket—thudding against the floor like a verdict.
Guilt flashes through me, sharp and fast.
I pick it up and set it on the dresser.
Then I stare at the ceiling.
What the fuck are we doing?
And why does it feel so good to lose control—only with her?
There’s one new voicemail.
Who even sends those anymore?
Then I remember Ruthie said she left one, and I told her I wouldn’t listen.
But then I see a text too.