Page 53 of Taken By Him

I grin into the receiver. “He’s working on it. I’m giving him full responsibility with the club. He’s good at it.” It also keeps his hands as clean as I can keep them, but I don’t say that to my father. I’m the oldest. I’ll take the risks for all of us.

I catch a glimpse of a shadow passing my office door. A light goes on down the hall, in the kitchen.

“This is good, son. You’ve done good.”

Pride blossoms in my chest. My father’s never been one to lay on the compliments, but he’s always given credit when it’s due.

A cabinet opens and closes in the kitchen. With the dead quiet of night, I can hear almost everything happening in there.

“Thank you.” I check the time. Three in the morning; she should be asleep. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Just handle the attorney and call me when it’s all set. I’m eager to get home and get this mess dealt with.”

I laugh. “I thought you’d be enjoying yourself over there. You’re always saying you want to spend more time there.”

He grunts. “I’ve had enough fun.” What he means is he’s had enough of not being in full control. Over there, he has to answer directly to the council. Here in Chicago, he has more freedom. Soon we won’t have to answer to the council at all, but it takes time for such freedom.

“I’ll call you when I get the all clear. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Good. Good.”

A female voice beckons him on the other side of the line, and he makes an excuse to hang up. I put my phone on my desk and follow the soft beeping coming from the kitchen.

Kasia stands in front of the microwave, staring through the door at the small plate rotating inside.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I ask in a low voice.

She jumps and spins around, her hand to her chest. “Shit. You scared me.” She turns back to the microwave and hits the end button. Whatever she’s reheating, it’s only been in there for a few seconds.

“What are you doing up?” I walk around the kitchen island to her. She opens the microwave door and pokes her finger inside. Looking over her shoulder, I see what she has, and a smile tugs at my lips.

“I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. I was hungry,” she says and pulls the plate of blueberry pierogi from the microwave.

“Are those warm enough?” I ask as she shimmies past me to sit on a stool on the other side of the island.

“These are best room temperature, but Margaret put them in the fridge.”

“She wasn’t sure you’d have them today. I told her to put them away.” I grab the sour cream from the fridge and the sugar bowl from the coffee nook.

“You asked her to make these?”

“She was making potato and cheese pierogi for tomorrow and I said you’d probably like some blueberry ones.” I shrug like it’s not a big deal. And it shouldn’t be. A housekeeper making something for her to enjoy isn’t a big deal. But the way her eyes light up tells me this is much bigger to her than I could have thought.

“Thank you,” she says as she opens the sour cream. “It’s best like this, right?” She smiles as she scoops a spoonful of sour cream onto her plate and then sprinkles sugar on top to mix.

“It is.” I lean my forearms on the island across from her. I want to give her space; she seems so carefree at the moment. If I could capture it in a bottle, I would. She’s so relaxed. So sweet looking.

“My grandmother used to make these for me when I was younger. When she lived with us.” She uses the side of her fork to cut into the pierogi, and blueberry juice spills out. Sweeping it through the sugary cream, she brings it to her mouth.

As soon as her lips close around the treat, her eyes roll, and she moans. “I’d forgotten how good these are,” she says. My cock doesn’t understand she’s talking about her dessert. I’m getting hard watching my wife eat something as simple as a blueberry pierogi.

“Your grandmother made them often?” I’m enjoying her smile too much, I think. It’s the middle of the night. She’s swept her hair into a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a cotton t-shirt and shorts. She couldn’t look more innocent and at home. I could eat her alive right where she sits.

“They were a treat.” She takes another bite.

“Treat for what?” I ask grabbing the container from the fridge. She’s almost done with what she’s heated up, and she’s going to want more.

I want to see her eat more.

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