Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Did you arrange this between the two of you?”
39
Carson
“Did you arrange this between the two of you?”
Sliding the hotel key card from between two fingers, I tap it rapidly against my thigh. The key card Rose just handed me with the pouting directive of, please go and see what she’s doing, Car.
And now I’ve seen.
Fuck, have I seen.
And while I’m rock hard and throbbing, I’m also pissed, though I can’t quite rearrange my thoughts to the point where I understand why I feel like this. Watching Fee was the hottest thing I’ve seen since, well, since the last time I was between her legs but, Jesus, I feel twisted up inside.
“Well?” I growl like an asshole and nudge her foot with my shoe, feet that, moments ago were throwing orgasmic gang signs. Maybe I shouldn’t be standing here. Maybe I should be on my knees between her feet instead. “Is this some fucked up punishment? A way to torture me?”
“Carson . . . I . . .” Fee’s chest rises and fall, the flush across her skin even deeper than it was a few moments before. She blinks heavily, her hands fluttering by her sides almost as though she’s wondering if she should rub her eyes. Maybe shake her head? Pinch herself to see if she’s dreaming. Or maybe more appropriately, having some kind of lucid nightmare. Because if she and Rose did concoct this peep show, I’m guessing my reaction isn’t the one they were hoping for.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, her voice sounding small. Moving her knees together, she begins to primly pull her dress down her thighs.
Is that what I want to hear her say? I would’ve fallen to my knees to hear this very thing on any day between now and when she left. But right now, I’m not so sure. I feel like a fucking fool. I don’t know what it is she wants from me and I’m almost too scared to ask. Because I know what I want from her and that’s everything.
I hurt her and I can’t take that back. I’ve castigated myself, railed against my own stupidity. Wondered how I could’ve been such a conceited fucking idiot. She left me and she had every right to, every reason. Because when I took a good look at myself, I saw what she saw. My way of life wasn’t about settling old scores or punishing his name. It wasn’t righteous in its depravity in any way. What I saw when I took a good look at me was something sordid and wrong. What I saw was shame, wrapped up in a pretty frame.
How could she ever want me again?
But sitting next to her in the restaurant earlier, hearing, seeing, that she hadn’t told a soul the truth of us. Of me. It gave me hope. Hope she’d let me make it up to her over the course of a lifetime.
But the thing I’m just understanding about hope is that it might be a thing with feathers, just like the poem says. Hope can be light and airy and without consequence. Have I hoped in vain?
“Tell me what the fuck this is, Fee. What does it mean? Can you explain it to me because—” I blow out a breath and run a hand through my hair. I want her so fucking much and she’s so close I can almost taste her. My fingers ache to tug her up from the bench, to pull her to my chest and press my lips to her head. Press her back against the mattress behind her and defile her. It would be so easy and maybe I could even kid myself that I’m okay with just sex. Fall into those intense rhythms we make, lose myself in her and the moment. But the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to settle for being anything but her forever.
These weeks have been hell and a taste of what I’ve missed isn’t enough. I’m not a performing fucking seal, driven only by lust. Except—
You reap what you fucking sow, right?
“I didn’t mean for you to see. This wasn’t . . . isn’t what you think it is.” The words hang between us and I try to let their meaning sink in. “I think I was just hoping to take the edge off.”
“The edge?” I repeat. Or maybe sneer.
“Yes.” Her eyes search mine and she swallows. “I came up to check on the kids. It’s true,” she adds fervently as my eyes flick over her, denying her words. “I was going to put my pyjamas on and go to bed but then I decided I wouldn’t—that I’d go back down to the bar and force myself to speak with you.”
“Force yourself into a conversation with me?” I fold my arms across my chest and stare down at her, forcing my expression into one of anger, not pain.