Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I lick my lips and swallow. Draw in a breath. “We need to have some fucking sex."
Yeah, I just said that. Even dropped the F bomb, which under normal circumstances would get my butt spanked. But now he only grumbles at me, the little rumble in his chest making my heart squeeze. And when he doesn't say anything else, I swallow the lump in my throat.
Why does it feel like rejection? It's strange.
"Don't try me, Aria. I'm doing my best here."
"Obviously you are. But we still are us, Mikhail. You've done everything, and I'm so grateful. Daily foot and back massages? Those love notes you leave me on my pillow when you walk across the room? Breakfast in bed? I mean, you had a tailor come out and help me pick out the most luxurious maternity wardrobe a mother can ask for. I know you’re going above and beyond."
I play with the ring on my finger. "And I don't know what you're doing in the other room. But I suspect that also has something to do with me, and I'm excited about that. But I miss…us. That raw, primal thing we had going." A lump rises in my throat, and I try to clear it with no success. "I miss the tiger."
Every night I go to sleep, I can see the tattoo on the broad expanse of his back when he's lying on his belly, his hands tucked under his pillow. The tiger’s eyes mock me now. I felt the bite of its claws so often, I long for it. And now…who would've thought I'd feel rejected because he's being too damn nice?
I kind of feel like a spoiled brat. I have a custom-made wardrobe behind those closet doors. A credit card with a ridiculous limit. I mean, does it even have a limit? Everything I could ask for, including the attention of the man that I love. Because yes, I know that I love him.
And while I'm not totally at peace with carrying his child? I'm telling myself I still have a good bit of time ahead of me. That's plenty of time to get used to the idea.
When I'm uncomfortable, he makes me comfortable. He has a team of doctors to take care of me and to monitor all of my symptoms. I have medication and Russian remedies for the nausea. He helps me sleep and holds me when I'm restless. Massages my back, and massages my feet.
But I crave more. I want him. I want a chance to reciprocate. I want the emotional connection.
I think what might be the most disconcerting part of all of this is knowing he's holding back from who he is. A tiger velveting his paws. I want to feel the bite of those paws again.
He gives me a curious look while concentrating on my feet.
"I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt our son."
I guffaw out loud. "Oh no you don’t. Who told you I'm having a son? Did you see some type of study or test that I haven't seen yet? Because as far as I know, this could be a girl. Maybe even two. "
I glare at him which only seems to amuse him. "You have many traditions in Russia.”
“Traditions or superstitions? They’re not the same.”
Ignoring me, he continues. “Russian tradition says a man who has a firstborn son will be wealthy, and his son will rule with authority and integrity.”
"But guess what, buddy. We aren’t in Russia anymore. And while I may probably have some Russian DNA in me now that I'm actually bearing a Russian child, we’re still American here. And here in America, both girls and boys are given equal opportunity."
It's our goal, anyway.
I try to cross my arms over my chest to make my point, but my breasts hurt today. That's when I see the twinkle in his eyes that goes with the twitching of his lips.
He is so giving me shit. I yank my feet away from him.
“You are so trying to fucking rile me up!”
His muscles clench; he really does hate when I swear.
"Are you really pushing the limits with me?"
"Of course I'm not," I lie. I'm not going to admit out loud that I actually want to go over his lap. Why would I do such a stupid thing?
He tips his head to the side, his tone dark and seductive when he insists, "You like it when I spank you."
I turn my head away. "Like punishment? You spank hard. Of course I don't like it.”
I won't meet his eyes though.
He starts sliding his hands all over my body.
"You miss my dick.”
"Is there some Russian superstition for that, too?"
He snorts. "Of course there is."
“Oh?" I say, as he bends his mouth to my neck and kisses me in that sweet, sweet spot, right between my chin and collarbone. I stifle a moan, because I don't want to give him the satisfaction.