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“It’s normal to swell at this stage of my pregnancy,” I told him self-consciously, trying to wriggle my way out of his grip. “Dr. Liza said it should go down in a day or two. I just need to rub them a li—” I didn’t even finish my sentence before he started kneading the soles of my feet gently. “You really don’t have to do that…”
He ignored me and just kept going.
Half an hour later, my feet felt great. My vagina? Not so much. Apparently, she was jealous of all the attention my feet were getting.
Which is why, immediately after he finished, I jumped off the sofa and high-tailed it to my room.
I paced until my traitorous lady bits stopped throbbing and the after-effects of his foot rub had worn off. Then I got into bed and spent a good hour resisting the urge to masturbate before falling into an exhausted sleep that inevitably gave way to a never-ending series of wet dreams that make me shudder even to think about.
All in all, it’s been a rough few days. It’s a bloody cage match between guilt and desire and there are moments when I honestly don’t know which one will win out.
I’m rooting for guilt, if only to keep me from doing something stupid—like falling hard for the man responsible for the biggest hole in my heart. But there are times when reality manages to burn through all that wishful thinking. When I’m faced with the glaring truth that I started falling a long time ago.
And there’s no wind strong enough to blow me back up to the top of that hill.
If only I could talk to Syrah. And I mean really talk to Syrah.
But I can’t. Because she would never understand. This is not the kind of situation anyone can understand unless they’ve been through it themselves. And I’m pretty sure there’s no support group for Women Who’ve Been Kidnapped And Accidentally Impregnated By Their Hot Boss Turned Bratva Pakhan Turned Personal Villain Who Robbed You Of Your Best Friend-Slash-Sister.
Really rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? WWBKAAIBTHBTBPTPVWRYOYBF-S-S Anonymous.
Membership includes: me, myself and I.
A buzzing sound draws my attention towards my vibrating phone on the coffee table. It’s Syrah. Speak of the devil. I’m not really in the right headspace for a long conversation, but I’m too lonely right now to pass up the call, either.
“Hey, Sy.”
She dispenses with the pleasantries. “How’s your Saturday looking?”
“Um, lazy. I’m too tired and swollen to do much of anything other than sit on the couch and snack.”
“How about I get some more snacks and join you?”
Cringing, I grab my blanket and pull it tighter around me. The cashmere is a deep aquamarine blue, velvety soft, and it has the added benefit of smelling like Dmitri. I wonder if that was intentional on his part. A mental psych-out, perhaps? A way to get in my head and soften me up from the inside?
“Wren?”
Concentrate, you obsessive psychopath! “Sorry, hon, I’ve been exhausted all day. I’m afraid I won’t be fun company. I’ll probably fall asleep during this conversation.”
“Well, you certainly sound relaxed.”
I’m glad someone thinks so. I feel like I just swallowed a live wire. “I’m getting there. We’ll catch up soon, though. I promise.”
“No worries. Just as long as you’re comfortable and well taken care of.”
I don’t even have to lie about this one. “I am. He makes sure I have everything I need. All I have to do is mention something in passing and it’s in front of me the next day.”
She lets loose an excited giggle. “How much have you tested that theory? Because you could really milk that, if you were so inclined. He’s like a genie with abs.”
Laughing, I lie back against the sofa and try unsuccessfully to find a spot that makes me feel less pregnant. “He’d rise to the challenge. Trust me.”
“Sounds like you fell ass-backwards into the best-case scenario.”
If she only knew. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“I’m guessing everything is going smoothly there?” she asks tentatively. I make the mistake of hesitating and she pounces on it right away. “What is it? Is he being a jerk?”
“No, no, no,” I rush to correct her. “It’s more the… opposite problem.”
