Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
She looked up at me. “You didn’t. But if you did, I wouldn’t tell you, because I wanted it.”
I reached down and pulled her to her feet, yanking my jeans up before wrapping my arms around her. “You’re too good to be true.”
She twined her arms around my waist and lay her cheek on my chest. “I wanted to make you feel better. I felt bad for ruining our night.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. And you made me feel so good I forgot about everything but you.”
She squeezed me tighter. “Good. I’ve never done that before.”
“What?” I leaned back at the waist so I could see her face without letting go of her. “You can’t be serious.”
She looked up at me guilelessly. “I’m serious. I haven’t.”
“Not ever?”
“Well, I might have tried to give it a go a couple times, but I was never into it. And I for sure never … you know, made it to the finish line. I dropped out of the race every time.”
“Well, fuck. You definitely won the marathon this time.”
She smiled. “It was more like a sprint, actually. You’re fast, just like you said.”
I groaned. “That is not what I meant when I told you I was fast.”
Giggling, she snuggled close to me again. “I’m teasing. Don’t worry, you were perfect. I loved every second.”
Jesus, was this woman real? “I feel like I should pinch myself. Make sure this isn’t a dream.”
“I’ll pinch you if you want me to. But I promise this is real.”
I held her close. She was real, wasn’t she? And she was here, with me, by choice.
Except—she wasn’t really mine. Some other asshole was going to win the race next time, and the time after that, too. After tonight, I couldn’t even compete.
Something splintered in my chest. I would miss her. I didn’t want to miss her. And I didn’t want to think about some other asshole sticking his dick in her mouth, or touching any part of her body, or even holding her this way.
So don’t think about it. Flip the switch.
I forced myself to go numb even as I dropped a kiss on her head. “Hey. Want some dessert? I know where we can get some. The place isn’t too fancy, but the pie is the best you’ll ever taste.”
She gave me a squeeze. “Then let’s go.”
We rode home the same way we’d driven out earlier, but she seemed to hold me a little tighter, keep her body pressed even closer to mine. Her hands moved more, too—over my chest and abs, along my thighs. It might not end as graphically as my fantasy earlier this week, but it still felt pretty fucking good.
Brie had hated the bike, never wanted to take it anywhere. It would mess up her hair, she said, or she wanted to wear a short skirt. Don’t you want me to look sexy when we go out? she’d ask with her usual pouty face. Don’t you want me to feel good about myself?
Actually, I never wanted to go out to begin with. It always felt like her friends and her places and her ideas about how to have a good time. I never enjoyed any of it, and I’d have been happier staying in.
Then stay in alone, she’d snap. I’m too young to sit around this house all the time. I want to go out. I want to have fun. I want to be around people who make me laugh. All you do is frustrate me.
Sorry, I’d say, but I wouldn’t really be sorry. It was just what I was supposed to say, and I said it so often I thought maybe I should tattoo it across my mouth.
I apologized a lot to Stella too, but that was different—she didn’t come looking for it. She didn’t try to guilt me into anything. But she didn’t let me get away with being a dickhead to her, and I liked it when she showed a little mettle and stood up for herself. So my sorries to her were genuine—I didn’t like disappointing her.
I worried, of course, that I’d said too much on the walk back to the bike. Those were not things I’d ever planned on telling her, or anyone. The only person I’d ever spoken to like that was Mack, but I knew he’d never judge me. And I trusted him with my life. I always would.
Stella was different. I wanted to trust her—I liked the idea of trusting her—but I struggled. Almost everyone I’d trusted in the past, every ideal I’d held close to my heart, had let me down somehow. I couldn’t even trust myself to tell friend from enemy.
But I had to admit, some of the burden of loneliness had been lifted from me tonight as I’d spilled my guts. Maybe she didn’t fully understand, but at least she hadn’t appeared to be horrified. She hadn’t told me I was crazy. Nor had she insisted things would get better, and I just needed to forget it and move on. She’d let me talk, and she’d listened.