Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“I don’t want to think about anything right now,” she whispers. “I just want to breathe.”
I swallow hard because I get it. God, I fucking get it. The sex was a brief reprieve, a moment where she could forget the weight of everything. In the afterglow, she’s left to remember every reason she’s afraid.
I step close again, gentler this time, and place my hands on her cheeks. “Molly,” I say quietly. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
She closes her eyes, and her voice breaks when she answers, “But I am scared. Not of you hurting me. But of what loving you would mean. What it would cost.”
My chest tightens sharply at that word. She doesn’t realize she said it. I brush my thumb along her cheek, steady even though inside I feel anything but.
“I’ll protect you,” I say. “And the baby. I swear it.”
“You can’t promise that,” she whispers. “Not with what you do. Not with who you are.”
I inhale slowly, the truth heavy in my chest. She’s right.
“Can we forget, for just one night?”
She nods and I help her down from the counter, taking her hand.
Her breath stutters, and she lets me lead her, pliant, trusting. Dangerously trusting. I guide her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed, kissing her again.
She looks up at me with wide, softened eyes, and the fear she tried to hide earlier flashes behind them again. I shove the thought down before it can crack through the moment. I’ve only got so much time before reality claws its way in again, and I intend to take every second.
I lower myself over her, kissing down her neck, across her chest, down her stomach, right over the place where our child is growing. She makes a small, startled sound when I pause there, my breath warm against her skin.
“Samuil,” she whispers.
“Shh.” I press my lips there, slow and reverent. “Let me.”
I kiss that spot again, then move lower. She spreads her legs for me without hesitation, one hand sliding into my hair as I put my mouth on her. Her breath catches, and she arches up, meeting every stroke of my tongue like her body was made for this.
Maybe it was.
Her thighs shake. She pulls at my hair. She tries to say my name but ends up breaking apart on a harsh, breathless cry instead. I feel her come undone against my mouth, trembling as wave after wave tears through her.
When she stops shaking, I climb back up her body, kissing a slow trail across her stomach, her chest, her throat. She looks soft and dazed, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. I wish we could stay in this moment forever, that nothing else would even exist. I push the feeling aside. Later. I can deal with it later.
I roll her onto her stomach and pull her hips back. She gasps, grabbing at the sheets, but she doesn’t stop me. She never does. She wants this just as much as I do. I push into her again, slow and deep, and her whole body goes taut. Her perfect pussy grips me tightly. I take hold of her hips and start moving, watching the way her back arches, the way her fingers curl tight in the sheets. When she comes this time, she bites her lip so hard I see a mark bloom there.
I fall right after her, burying myself to the hilt, pressing my forehead between her shoulder blades. I try to breathe evenly and steady myself, but it takes a long time.
When it’s over, when she’s limp and spent and lying on her side with her head on my arm, the thoughts I was holding at bay finally hit me.
How long can I keep her safe? How long can I make her believe this is enough protection? How long can I keep the men hunting me from finding her?
She drifts to sleep with her fingers curled in the sheets, completely unaware of the weight pressing down on me. I lie awake staring at the ceiling until she rolls onto her other side and curls into a ball.
The next morning, I’m still wrecked by the thought that we won’t survive this. I sit at my desk, staring out at nothing in particular and trying to maintain some semblance of control over my life.
Davýd comes in without knocking, per usual. He takes one look at me and snorts. “You look like hell.”
I don’t answer or bother pretending otherwise.
“What’s going on?” I ask him, though I’m not really interested.
He drops into an armchair, elbows on his knees. “I’ve just been thinking about how good your girl was with Anya last night. I haven’t seen her like that since before…”
He doesn’t have to finish his thought.
“I haven’t heard her laugh in months. I was worried she never would again. None of the speech therapy or counseling has seemed to get through to her the way one evening with Molly did.”