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SYRAH: Why the hell not? He got you pregnant—he can get you off, too.
ME: Sure, sure. But what about the fact that he killed Rose and Jared in cold blood?
SYRAH: WHAT THE FUCK?!
ME: Yeah, sorry. I should have mentioned that little detail earlier.
SYRAH: He killed Rose and Jared and you actually fucked him in your bathtub?
ME: Exactly. I’m a horrible person.
SYRAH: You were supposed to be the sensible one between us. Why would you do such a thing, Wren?
ME: I don’t know. He just… he does something to me.
SYRAH: Is he threatening you? Manipulating you? Controlling you?
Me: Worse. He’s being nice to me. Ever since the bathtub sex, he cooks almost all my meals. He had a massage therapist visit me yesterday for a two-hour session. He got the library and the theater room stocked with all my favorite books, movies, and snacks. He’s had my entire wardrobe replaced with branded maternity wear. He’s even building our son’s nursery from scratch. And the swing, Syrah! He found the childhood swing that Rose and I scratched our initials into and he installed it in the nursery!
SYRAH: If he hadn’t killed your sister, I would swoon!
ME: But he did kill my sister.
SYRAH: Didn’t stop you from fucking him in the tub.
ME: I hate myself.
SYRAH: You should. I would, too.
I snap out of my masochistic little dream sequence and resist the urge to slap myself across the face. Syrah would never say that last part. At least not out loud.
She might think it, though.
I unfold my legs and get off the living room sofa. Not even Chicago’s skyline can distract me from the internal conflict that’s been raging inside me since Dmitri walked out of my bedroom that day. The day I’d compromised my morals and let him…
I fall into that moment—the way his hands caressed my calves as they snaked higher and higher up my legs… The way he looked at me—not like some ugly pregnant cow, but like a desirable and attractive woman. And the way he kissed me…
My pussy throbs hungrily at the memory.
No! Shut it down! I cannot afford to go there, not even in my head. Crossing that line once was bad enough. But fantasizing about it in my free time? That’s a new level of low. And yet, I find myself falling into it so easily.
The fact that Dmitri has been a freaking dream since the bathtub incident—and yes, it qualifies as an “incident”—is certainly not helping. I swear to God, it’s like he’s vowed to make this as hard for me as possible.
Starting with how he hasn’t once brought up what happened between us. He’s always unfailingly polite and extremely thoughtful and he acts as though there was no line breached, no boundaries compromised.
We eat dinner together, which of course he prepares from scratch by himself. And then he says goodnight and waves me off to my room. I didn’t expect him to take the whole respecting-my-wishes thing quite so seriously.
Half the time, I’m not sure if I’m grateful or disappointed.
Then there was last night. I was sitting on the sofa in the living room with a book on my lap. It was only slightly chilly, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Except for the next thing I knew, I’d had a cashmere blanket thrown over me.
“You’ve got goosebumps,” Dmitri answered in reply to my questioning gaze.
Since I can never concentrate on anything else when he’s around, I put down my book and started rubbing my ankles absentmindedly.
“Is that swelling?” he asked immediately.
I tried—too late, clearly—to hide my fat sausage feet underneath the blanket, but he’d just pulled them back out and stared at them.
