Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I take the long way through the corridor, slowing as I reach the side hallway leading to the garden. Through the glass doors I spot her before she notices me. She’s perched on the edge of a stone bench, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched out lazily. Her sketchbook balances on her knee, head tilted in concentration while her hand flies across the page. A breeze lifts her hair from her shoulders, and the sunlight kisses her face, robbing me of breath.
I don’t move, not yet. I let myself watch her for another heartbeat, drinking her in. She’s wearing a soft sleeveless top and jeans, nothing fancy, yet she looks more regal than any woman I’ve ever seen. She’s completely absorbed in her work, the small smile tugging at her mouth telling me she’s in her element. She’s not pretending here, not playing the perfect wife or polished heiress. She’s just Katya. A woman who is wild, brilliant, and real. And she’s mine.
I clear my throat softly, not wanting to startle her. Her head lifts, eyes locking on mine. The smile she offers is small but unguarded, and warmth spreads through my chest.
“Got a second?” I ask, stepping out onto the stone path.
“For you?” she says, shutting her sketchbook. “Always.”
I cross to her and offer my hand. She slips hers into mine without hesitation and her fingers are warm and smudged with graphite. I don’t let go.
“I’ve got something to show you,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift. “Should I be nervous?”
“Maybe.”
She snorts softly, then stands, brushing invisible dust from her jeans.
“Is it another gun vault?” she teases. “A secret tunnel? One of those underground Bratva poker rooms?”
“No. But now I’m tempted to add a few.”
She laughs, and the sound spears straight through me. I force myself to think of the most boring, mundane details just to keep my excitement in check.
I lead her back into the house, my thumb tracing slow circles along the back of her hand as we walk. We reach the far hallway on the first floor, and I stop in front of a door that’s been locked since the day she moved in.
She narrows her eyes. “I thought this room was being remodeled,” she says.
“It was, and now it’s finished.” I can’t help but grin, my heart pounding in anticipation of her reaction.
I reach for the handle and open the door.
She steps inside and freezes.
Light pours through tall arched windows and spills across the newly laid wood floors. One wall is lined with blank canvases beside an industrial shelf stocked with every supply I could find. There’s acrylics, oils, charcoals, stacks of high-quality paper, and fresh brushes grouped by thickness. A sleek drafting table anchors the far corner, while an easel waits beneath the window, a rolling cart brimming with pencils and tools at its side. A plush, height-adjustable stool sits nearby. Warm, natural overhead lighting replaces anything clinical, and discreet surround-sound speakers promise music while she works.
Katya doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move. She just stands there, stunned.
I step closer and lower my voice. “I know you worried marriage might mean giving up some of the things you love. But I want you to have everything you need at your fingertips. You’re not here just to be my wife, Katya. You’re here to be you.”
She turns, eyes glassy. “You did all this for me?”
The genuine shock in her voice nearly undoes me. All I can do is nod.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she whispers.
“Then don’t say anything,” I offer.
And she doesn’t. The sketchbook thuds to the floor as she loops her arms around my neck, kissing me so fiercely it almost knocks me backward. I catch her waist, steadying us both. What starts as a thank-you quickly morphs into something deeper, hotter. Her lips part, and I accept the invitation, sliding my hand up her back as our bodies press flush.
She tastes like coffee and cinnamon, and something uniquely her. The kiss turns desperate, as though we’re saying everything words can’t. Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer. My control slips, and I deepen the kiss, devouring her mouth as if I’ve been starving.
Katya moans softly against me, the sound arrowing straight to my cock. I spin us gently, pressing her back to the wall. My hands frame her face, and I break the kiss just long enough to meet her eyes.
“Do you like your surprise?” I murmur.
She lets out a breathless laugh. “I love it. Thank you.”
I lean in again, kissing her slower this time, deep and lingering, a promise. Her hands roam under my shirt, and I groan into her mouth, already burning for her. But I don’t rush. Not when she’s giving herself to me like this. Not when she deserves to be worshiped for who she is.