Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
He goes straight to the swollen nub of my clit, as if he knows exactly where it is without looking. He flicks it once and my back arches off the table. Coupled with his expert, measured rubs at my folds and the stimulation of my ass, I feel like I’ll go up in flames.
With his hands alone, he’s pushing me off a steep edge. I can feel those noises attempting to break free and bite my lip harder, tasting metal.
But this time, I can’t control the explosion that ignites in my core and bursts through my whole body.
It creeps out of me slowly, but when it engulfs me, I’m a goner. Completely and with no way out.
I continue biting my lip, even as I shake with the violent pleasure he’s wrenched out of me.
I continue biting my lip, even when the feeling gets so intense that I want to scream out loud. Even when muting myself feels like I’m robbing my own pleasure. My desire. My terrifying lust.
A tremor still grips me well after Adrian removes his hand from my panties. He doesn’t release my hair, though, and remains like that long enough that my ass cools a little.
I want to steal a glance at him, to see how the devil looks after he gets what he wants. But I don’t get the chance to argue against that thought as he flips me around. My back meets the table, and I think he’ll fuck me or something, but he just keeps staring at me in that unsettling expressionless manner.
I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I prefer the way his eyes darken over this. At least then I can tell he’s somehow displeased. But now? He seems like a tall, sturdy wall, impossible to climb or destroy.
The more he watches me, the harsher my breathing becomes. I hate being under his scrutiny. Or under his roof. I hate being under his anything.
He runs the tip of his finger over my bottom lip and forces me to release it from beneath my teeth. I forgot I was still muffling my voice even after I came down from my orgasm.
He caresses the broken skin, but it’s far from a doting gesture. It’s deceptive, secretly coarse and callous. “Hide all you like, but I’ll eventually bring you out.”
Good luck finding what’s not there in the first place.
Adrian Volkov might have thought he hit the jackpot by finding his dead wife’s lookalike, but what he doesn’t know is that he fell upon a shell.
And inside this shell, there’s nothing for him to bring out.
12
Winter
I remain slumped against the table long after Adrian leaves. I didn’t look at him, because if I had, I would’ve been creeped out by the total darkness in his eyes.
My shorts are still bunched around my ankles because I didn’t have the energy to pull them up. My dignity is somewhere on the floor, too, as I stay here, hugging the table even after the click of the door has echoed in the silent dining room.
I don’t want to think about what just happened or how embarrassingly I reacted to it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel it. The handprints, the flames on my ass. The damn tingling in my core.
Slowly closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath and straighten. The movement shifts the tingling, and it’s like my world is set on fire. I’m careful in pulling up my shorts, but my ass is burning. The friction causes me to moan. I don’t bother hiding it now since he’s not here and won’t be able to hear me.
This is so messed up.
I need a drink. Or two.
I’ve been sober for way too long and that’s probably why I’m reacting this way. If I’m half-drunk, as usual—or better yet, completely drunk—I’ll return to my robotic self, who barely feels anything.
Larry never approved of my drinking habits and I miss him, but I can’t see him, so this calls for more drinks.
I search the wooden cabinets on the sides of the room, but I find nothing. They probably keep alcohol in the kitchen.
After leaving the dining room, I follow the path Ogla showed me earlier until I find myself in the entryway. I go in the opposite direction, assuming that’s where the kitchen will be.
Sure enough, I find it. The space is large and way cleaner than any cooking space I’ve seen before. The white counters are shining and the stainless-steel kitchen tools occupy a portion of the counter, waiting to be used.
I’m nervous about touching anything in case I ruin something. But my need for a drink overrules that feeling. There’s a constant ache at the front of my head that will only ebb with alcohol.
I start with the fridge. There’s water, fruits, vegetables, and bottles of juice. But there’s no sign of any beer. So I move on to the cabinets, checking them one by one. I find cereals, probably for Jeremy, spices, some utensils, but there’s still no trace of alcohol.