Page 18 of Owning Him
"Don't talk," she breathes. "Just... keep doing that."
I massage her head until the line between her brows smooths out. Then, I shift down, gently taking hold of her barefeet. I use my thumbs to press deep into the arches of her aching feet, working out the knots left behind by those ridiculous heels.
If I know what is good for me, I should just follow her orders. I should stay in my lane and not test her patience.
But I physically cannot do it.
Every tiny noise slipping from her throat is an assault on my sanity. I want to carry her in my arms like a little fuck doll, pinning her against the wall while sliding deep inside her over and over again, listening to her pride completely shatter into begs.
But she isn’t in the mood. That much is clear.
After half an hour of rubbing her little feet, her breathing turns deep. She is completely asleep.
Carefully, I slip my arms under her back and knees. Her head lolls naturally against the crook of my neck. I carry her into her bedroom, placing her down onto the silk sheets as gently as possible.
Standing over her bed, I find myself trapped in a dilemma.
There is no way that skirt and blouse are comfortable to sleep in. But undressing her while she is unconscious feels too intimate. Yet, if she doesn't get good sleep, she won’t be able to work comfortably tomorrow. And Valentina always works.
I won't look, I promise myself.
I reach for the zipper of her skirt. Next is the blouse. I unbutton the collar, peeling the fabric away from her shoulders until she is left in nothing but a bra and a pair of panties.
I pull the heavy duvet all the way up to her chin.
The moment she is covered, I turn on my heel and run out of her bedroom.
My cock is still hard. But there is something else expanding in my chest. Something unfamiliar.
Purpose. A goal.
Chapter Twelve
Valentina
When my eyes snap open, the first thing I notice is that I’m in my underwear.
I bolt upright and fling the duvet off my lap. My clothes are neatly folded on the vanity chair across the room.
Viktor undressed me.
The realization strikes my skin like a shower of hot, needle-like pleasure. Yesterday was the first time in my entire life that I was actually taken care of by a man who wasn't my father.
I swing my legs out of bed. Viktor clearly feels indebted to me because I bought his freedom. But he shouldn't. I didn't bid ten million dollars on him out of the goodness of my heart. I don't do things for "good." I do them to satisfy my own morbid curiosity.
I force myself into the bathroom, taking a hot shower to wash away the lingering phantom touch of his hands. It’s Saturday morning, but I don’t get weekends. I have three back-to-back meetings at the office. I pull on a beige pantsuit and head downstairs.
I find him already sitting at the table, staring at an untouched plate of eggs.
"Good morning, Viktor," I say. "I'm not hungry, but please make sure you eat."
His brow instantly furrows. "You need to eat, Valentina."
"I know how to take care of myself, Viktor," I reply coolly, walking over to the bench by the door to adjust the strap of my heel.
"Doubt it," he mumbles under his breath.
Before I can snap back, he towers over me, but his fingers wrap around my uninjured wrist with terrifying gentleness.
