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Georgy passed away when Adrian was in his early twenties, and Adrian inherited everything, expanding his influence until he became who he is today.
There was no mention of his mother, though, so I ask, “Did your mother have an influence on your reading habits?”
He raises a brow as if he didn’t expect that question. “Maybe.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Neither. That’s why it’s a maybe.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Is he teasing me?
“Why wasn’t your mother in the document?”
“Because she didn’t exist.”
“Oh. Did she die while you were young?”
“Something like that.”
All his answers are vague at best. I can’t figure out what he’s trying to say or what he isn’t, but at the same time, he’s not completely refusing my questions. If anything, the small conversation has loosened him up a little to the point where his hold around my waist feels intimate. It’s no longer to ensure his control on me, but more like he wants to touch me.
“Did you have a childhood like Jeremy’s?” I ask.
“Like Jeremy’s?”
“As in, your father was absent and your mother had to take care of you?”
“It was the other way around.”
“Your mom was absent?”
He says nothing, his eyes looking at me but not seeming like they’re seeing me. I feel as if I’m losing hold of him, so I blurt, “If you had an absentee parent yourself, shouldn’t you feel Jeremy’s situation more?”
Some of the light goes back to his eyes at the mention of his son. “What about Jeremy’s situation?”
“He barely sees you, even though you mostly work from home.”
“We see each other fine.”
“Have you ever read him a bedtime story?”
“He outgrew those.”
“He’s only five, Adrian. He didn’t outgrow bedtime stories. Besides, he misses you.”
“How would you know that?”
“Every time we do something, he never fails to mention when he did it with you or what you told him about it. He’s looking at you all the time; why don’t you look at him?” My voice chokes and I try to clear my throat.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is to have an angel like Jeremy as a son. Adrian wipes a thumb under my eye, his expression warmer, almost like he doesn’t want me to cry. The asshole doesn’t seem to mind when I’m sobbing out my orgasms while he’s punishing me.
“How about you?” he whispers.
“Me?”
“Do you look at me?”
“I have no reason to look at you.”
