Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Thatcher nods. “I know.” He puts on his black slacks. “If it means anything, it’s not like I’ve dated an American princess before.”
I nod back.
But it’s not exactly the newness of a relationship that scares me. I’m frightened of loving a man to an overwhelming degree—to where I’d need to be loved by Thatcher. Necessity is life, and I’m afraid to need his love like I need air.
I can’t tell him this. I can’t say, Oh, Thatcher, I’d rather only fall mid-deep in love with you because I don’t want to need your love like water in the Sahara. Part of me longs to feel that un-reversible depth of emotion with him, but the other part resists completely.
Regardless, I need to prioritize and focus on what’s in front of me—no, not his dick. But rather his luggage and the closet. I toss the armful of clothes on my pink duvet. Pastel blouses land in a wrinkled heap.
A worn library copy of The Outsiders peeks from his unzipped duffel. I’ve already asked Thatcher about the book—not just because it looks like it was due back to the library eons ago—but because Thatcher has admitted more than once that he’s not a big reader.
What I know: the book belonged to Skylar Moretti.
Thatcher’s older brother would read it every night, and in the end, he never returned it to the school library. Skylar’s name is even still scribbled on the card inside the flap.
The bigger fact: the book is Thatcher’s only possession of Skylar’s, besides his cornic’.
Thatcher buttons his pants. “I’m putting my duffel under your bed. All of your clothes can go back in the closet.”
I crinkle my brows. “You’re not living out of a bag.”
“It doesn’t bother me—”
“It bothers me,” I rebut. “Greatly.” I think quickly while he sidles next to me. “So you’d prefer not to unpack? Would you rather live somewhere else?”
“Hell no.” Skin pleats his forehead. “I already said I want to be here.” More strongly, he emphasizes, “I want to live with you, Jane.”
I nod, believing him. But we’re both still frowning, and I hear his voice from before saying, you’re not a normal girl. “Are you trying to give me the whole closet because I’m obscenely wealthy—because you think I’m used to this humongous amount of space and need it?”
I did grow up in a mansion that is regal enough to be a modern-day American castle. But I’ve lived in this modest townhouse for four years, and I’ve loved every minute here.
Thatcher stares into me. “No. I wouldn’t want any girlfriend of mine, rich or fucking poor, to shove her clothes under a bed to make room for me.”
I hate that I almost smile, and I hate how my heart swells. He makes me feel…doted on. It feels quite nice, and it shouldn’t. Because he can’t give me everything while I give him nothing. My parents are equal to each other in every measure of their lives.
It’s what I saw growing up.
It’s what I know works. It’s been proven to succeed.
So I have to stand by my decision, and I tug a frilly purple blouse off a hanger. “I’m not putting this back.” I fold the blouse very messily. It’ll do. As soon as I set it down, my boyfriend picks it up. “Thatcher—” I cut myself off. Because he’s not slipping the frilly sleeves onto a hanger so it can be returned to the closet.
He refolds the blouse into a much neater square.
Our gazes meet, and he says, “Don’t take out more than this.”
He’s accepting 10% of the closet. Far less than I wanted for him, but I suppose it’ll have to be enough for now.
I extend my palm. “You have a deal.”
Light touches his stern eyes, and his large hand engulfs mine as we shake.
We don’t let go.
In a quiet moment, his other hand finds the small of my back, and Thatcher dips his head down so slowly…
Our lips collide in a scalding, sensual kiss that melds me against his chest. I rise on the tips of my toes. Electricity spindles up my limbs, from each toe to my head. My fingers descend to his ass, and his tongue parts my lips. Yes.
A high-pitched noise tickles my throat, and his hand slips beneath my flannel top. Scorching my skin. We are overflowing magma. Heat gathers, and our bodies scream blistered pleas for skin-on-skin contact everywhere.
And then, he breaks the deep kiss, his forehead nearly pressed to mine, and I scrounge my lungs for lost breath.
“You’re…” I breathe hard, words scattering into oblivion. You’re very good at kissing and very good at stopping. You’re more and everything.
He straightens up, resting a hand on top of my head. Our eyes still hot on each other. I eagerly search his gaze, and he tells me, “We’re still kerosene.”