Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Rolling my eyes, I walk over to the kitchen, fling open the glass door of the Sub-Zero fridge, and stick my head inside, groaning.
I’m burning alive over here.
“This isn’t even helping.” I bang my forehead against one of the shelves.
Lev’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head. “Come on, Dove. I’ll fill you a cold bath and you can soak in it. I’ll make you some lemonade too, okay?”
“Hmm.” I turn around to hug him, and he squeezes me close, dropping kisses to my forehead like a top-grade book boyfriend. “That sounds good. You go fill that bath, I’ll make us lemonades.”
His chest rumbles against my ear. “Nice try. I’m not leaving you for a nano-fucking-second.”
“Ugh, I hate you.”
“I love you.”
“You say that a lot.”
“I mean it completely.” He stands still, studying me under a thick fan of eyelashes. “Fuck it, I’m turning off the thermostat. The babies are swaggered or whatever it’s called.”
“Swaddled,” I correct. “Yup.”
“They’ll survive,” he mutters, then scowls. “They will survive, right? Baby Killer is a great rap name, not so much a title I wanna acquire for myself, though.”
Sighing, I push off of him. “They’re bundled up nicely. Plus, one of the suspected SID causes is overheating.”
“Fuck. I’ll turn it off but just on the first floor.” He flicks off the device, then starts making us lemonade, all while keeping an eye on me.
He’s doing it the elaborate, overachieving way. The Lev way. Squeezing lemons, mixing sugar, crushing ice cubes. I pace back and forth.
Sweat drips down the tip of my nose over the floor.
Drip, drip, drip.
It’s hot.
Too hot.
Hot enough to do something reckless.
Wildness takes over me. I peel off my leggings, tug my hairband loose, wrench the door open, and run straight into a pile of snow.
I dive into it. The snow melts around me, biting into my feverish flesh.
I rub my face against it, opening my mouth, my legs, my arms—letting it sneak into my bra and my panties.
I moan and laugh and cry and promise myself that if I ever kick the habit, I will never ever use a painkiller again.
Not even if I have surgery. Or a C-section. Or both. At the same time.
Muscular arms wrap around my waist from behind. They yank me from the hill of snow I’m perched over. Sleet tumbles off every crease in my body.
I moan in protest as Lev chucks me over his shoulder as if I weigh less than a wristwatch and tramps back into the house, oozing dark energy.
His back is a triangle of bulging muscles, and I rake my fingers along the slopes of his latissimus dorsi.
His skin pebbles wherever it’s exposed—elbows, forearms, even his fingers.
“Let me down. I said I’m hot.”
“You don’t have to say it,” he mumbles, kicking the door open and making way too much noise. “I have eyes, and my dick is in complete agreement.”
“I’m roasting, Lev. I need the snow.”
“You’ll catch pneumonia.” He is going up the stairs, leaving the half-finished lemonade behind. My face is dangling dangerously close to his ass now, and I’m tempted to sink my teeth in for a cheeky bite.
“Actually, there’s no scientific evidence linking cold, wet weather to respiratory infections. It’s a myth,” I point out.
“A myth, huh?” His fingers dig deeper into the back of my thighs, and my insides clench deliciously. “Consider me a Hellenist, then.”
Lev drops me on the edge of my four-poster bed. He turns his back to me and throws my closet open, sifting through my stuff.
I watch him, dread filling me. Is he searching for drugs again? I hope he doesn’t go for my suitcase. But he comes back a few seconds later holding my…pointe shoes?
“Planning to work on your rond de jambe?” I bite out sarcastically.
Apparently, I’m back to being shitty again. It’s hard to keep up, though.
“Why’d you bring these along?” he asks, pulling the ribbons apart from the shoes callously.
I gasp. “What are you doing? It’s so hard to resew—”
“Answer me,” he cuts in, and I don’t know why, but I’m kind of scared of him right now.
“I thought I might squeeze a practice or two in!” I snap. “Is that a crime?”
With the ribbons ripped from the shoes, he makes his way over to me with death in his eyes. “Arms up, Dove.”
“You want to tie me?” If my eyes are as large as they feel right now, they must be taking over the entire state of Wyoming.
“Gotta leave you alone for a couple minutes and I don’t trust you,” he says dryly.
“What if there’s a fire?”
“I won’t be gone long enough for that to come up.”
“Are we gonna open the trust issues Pandora’s box?” I laugh coldly. “Because last I checked, you were the one who—”
“Arms up,” he bites out again.
“Fuck you!”
“Trust me, baby, it’s on my agenda. Your smart mouth will be the first to be full of me. Your pussy will be next, and finally, that perfect ass. Don’t think I forgot about that pool scene. I’m going to fuck all of you and soon, but first, you’ll be sober, willing, and of sound mind.”