Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Does every book they read, every episode of TV they watch, every song they hear impact their world view?
Maybe it's both.
I don't know.
Every genre is fucked up in its own way. It's just this one is closer to my scars. And I'm utterly unable to handle it.
I can't even read books about consensual bondage.
People ask me all the time. They see me as an expert. I try to offer a diplomatic answer, but it's not the truth.
The truth is, those books make me sick.
But it's worse than that.
It's the world.
How can we live in such a fucked-up world? One where so many women crave this fantasy of their willingness to endure pain curing an abuser?
How can we live in such a fucked up world and not spend all our time and energy trying to fix it?
But that isn't possible. No one can fix the world. Including me.
I devote my life to helping abused people, and I barely make a dent.
Fuck, I'm spiraling.
It's overwhelming, being in Simon's space. Feeling the affection in his stare. Hearing the desire for intimacy in his voice.
That's why I'm staring at this shelf, and not the shelf of sweet romantic comedies.
Because I need to tell him about my parents.
If I want this to continue, if I want it to ever be more than sex, I need to tell him.
About my biological father, my mother, my response to my lack of control.
How the fuck do I tell him?
"Where are you going?" Simon slides his arm around my waist. Pulls my body into his.
He's safe and warm and strong.
I want to dissolve between his arms.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe it's enough to touch him and kiss him and connect physically.
No.
That's bullshit.
I need to tell him.
But how the fuck do I start?
I try to find something. Chicken out instead. "Studying the room."
"Which part?"
"All of it." I motion to the pink rug. The framed modern art. The overflowing bookshelf. "Opal?"
He nods. "She's a paperback holdout. Refuses an e-reader."
"So she has to talk to her brother about sexy romances?"
"You heard her." He presses his lips to my neck. "Annoyed, all the adults in her life talk to her about sex."
"Do they?"
"I do."
"What do you say?" I ask.
"She was fifteen when she showed up here. She knew the technical details, but I explained them anyway. Told her to always be safe. To only be with people she trusts. To value her desires and pleasure."
"You said those words to your sister?"
"I didn't do it because it was fun."
"Was it?"
"Not at first. I was as awkward as she was. What the fuck was I supposed to say to a grieving teenager? But no one else was going to do it. It was my responsibility as the adult in her life. As her brother."
You were responsible and honest, even though it was hard. I can do that too. I can tell you this too.
I try to find the words.
But I can't. Not yet.
Soon.
After we talk about his sister and his home and his life.
"Did you discuss the books?" I ask.
"They're not the best education."
What does he see?
"Not anatomically correct." He half-smiles.
It eases the tension in my shoulders.
It warms the space.
This first.
Easy first.
Then I tell him.
"This is about your dick again?" The words are awkward on my tongue.
He notices, but he doesn't mention it. "Dicks in general."
"You object to the representations?"
"Strange, every man is above average."
"Writers aren't good at math," I say.
His smile widens.
My shoulders ease a little more.
My chest warms a little more.
He likes me. He really likes me.
And I really like him.
"Can I ask you something?" he asks.
I nod.
"You've been with other men."
"A handful."
"A range of sizes?"
A laugh spills from my lips.
Simon Pierce is asking me if I've slept with guys with small dicks.
It's high school and perfect and easy.
I push my ugly thoughts aside. Fall into the fun parts.
"I didn't bring a measuring stick," I say. "But there's been a range."
"Is there a correlation in satisfaction?"
"Are more… what was it Liam said?"
"Locked and loaded." He chuckles.
"Are more locked and loaded men better fucks?" The details of my past relationships are a mess, but I can answer this. "No."
"Any correlation?"
"Not really."
"Do you prefer it?"
"I knew it was about your dick."
He smiles. "I didn't ask if mine was your favorite."
"But you wouldn't mind if I volunteered the information?"
"I wouldn't complain."
"Honest answer?"
"Should I be concerned?" he asks.
My laugh erases the tension in my jaw. "No. You know you're well-endowed."
He raises a brow.
"Not the biggest I've seen. But that was too much. More painful than anything. And… I don't have the experience, myself, but I hear some men who are larger think their dick is enough. They don't try. They're not generous."
"Is that the honest part?"
"No. Well, yes, it's true." Again, I laugh. This is absurd. And perfect. "I don't think about it."
"No."
"I don't."
"Never?"
"If I'm imagining something." My hands slip to his hips. "The look. The feel. But I'm not counting inches. I'm replaying the sensation of fullness. Satisfaction."