Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Chapter Seventeen
TOVA
When I wake up, it takes me a second to remember where I am. I sit up, glancing around the room. The other side of the bed is empty. There is no sign of my husband. It still feels a bit surreal that I have a husband. I mean, I never even had a boyfriend before.
That should probably piss me off, but I’m too smitten to care. I made a fool of myself last night and have a slight headache. It was totally worth it.
I wasn't sure how my wedding night would go. Was last night the typical idea of a perfect wedding night? I'm guessing not. I mean, I still have my V-card. But this marriage is far from typical.
Warren gave me a taste of the kind of husband he will be. I gave him a taste too. I fall back onto the bed, covering my face with my hands. I can't believe I got naked and then complained he wasn't going to see the shave job I'd given myself.
He went and got himself a front row seat to see it. Warren crashed the stage. I snort a laugh, sitting back up. I notice a glass of water and a couple of pills on the nightstand next to the bed.
I smile, remembering how after I passed out from the two orgasms he’d given me, I’d awoken to Warren washing my face off with a cloth. Then he had me drink water and take a couple of pills. I might have dozed off after crawling on top of him. That’s the last that I can recall. I don’t remember him complaining about it, but things got a bit hazy.
Snagging the pills off the table, I take them and gulp the water down before making my way to the bathroom.
“This place is massive,” I mutter to myself. You’d think we were in a condo, not just the corner of this giant house. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I know I need a shower. It is only when I am exiting the shower that I remember I do not have any clothing here.
I decide I’ll steal a shirt from Warren’s closet. It’s massive too. Bigger than my freaking bedroom. There is even a sitting area and some kind of dresser island in the center. It doesn’t go unnoticed that more than half of it is empty. All of his clothes and items are organized and put away in one corner. Is it always this way, or did he make room for me? If he did make room, how much clothing does the man think I own?
He hung it up. I walk over to the wedding dress that is now hanging in the closet. Warren had been worried about it last night. He noticed I put sneaky pockets into it. They weren't visible unless you were looking for them or I had my hands in them.
My new husband is rather interesting with the details he does notice, but somehow other things fly right past him. I'm realizing the things that do kinda go over his head center around emotions and feelings. Just like now. I bet he has no clue it might be rude for me to wake up alone the night after our wedding, or maybe that's secretly what I'm hoping. That Warren is inexperienced in the emotional department the same way I am in other things. Hopefully time will help.
Deciding on one of the button-up black shirts, I put it on. I need clean panties and my glasses. I fell asleep with my contacts in. I steal a pair of his socks too before leaving the bedroom. I'm not sure where the hell I'm going. I pass a line of boxes in the hallway. I nosily want to peek inside but control myself.
"Mrs. Marino." One of Warren's men gives me a nod as I pass.
"Morning." I give him a smile. It's going to take time getting used to being called Mrs. anything.
"Mrs. Marino!" Chef Marcello exclaims when I enter the kitchen. Everyone around here is going to make sure I get my new name drilled into my head, clearly. "I have some pastries set out and juice. Would you like me to make you breakfast?" he offers.
"Oh no. This is fine." I'm good with a Pop-Tart or bowl of cereal in the morning. I was actually going to shuffle through the kitchen and out the back patio door to my house. Wait, it's not my house anymore.
"We do have a variety of"—Marcello pauses as if in pain—"Pop-Tarts and sugar cereals if you prefer, but these are our homemade fresh Pop-Tarts." He pushes a plate toward me. "Notice how the whole thing is frosted evenly."
"They look wonderful." I pick one up and take a bite. A small moan leaves me when the cherry filling and smooth sugary icing hit my tongue. "You've ruined me for Pop-Tarts."