Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“And you do?” I ask.
His eyes move over my face as he says, “Yes. It’s mine.”
Mine.
His.
This sketch is his, yes. But I’m his also.
I’ve been his for over eighteen months now, haven’t I?
And I think I’m going to be his for the rest of my life.
My thorn.
Who gave me what I wanted because he lied to me. Because he deliberately misled me and put me through so much turmoil. And while I do understand why he did it — I hated it though; I still do — I didn’t know that I needed this.
That I needed this apology from him, this acknowledgement of his wrongdoings.
Of his own lies.
And now that I have what I didn’t even know that I wanted, I’m going to give him something of me.
My heart.
Because I love him.
I’m in love with him, aren’t I?
God.
I’m in love with this man. I always have been.
Salem and Poe were right.
And I was wrong.
I was wrong to think that I wouldn’t risk my friendship with Callie. I wouldn’t risk breaking any more rules of St. Mary’s. Or my college goals. Or risk myself, my heart, my sanity. Because he’s in love with someone else.
I would.
I would risk everything for him. Everything.
I would choose him every single day and every single time.
I would choose him over myself.
And so I unfurl my fists and let love fill my body.
I let purpose fill my body too.
To love him. To care for him like he just did for me. To be his flower.
“I don’t have what I want,” I say.
“What?”
There is zero hesitation in me when I lean forward and put my hands on his shoulders. Like the muscles of his thighs, they leap and strain under my soft touch. And his gaze drops down.
It goes to the wide square neckline of my pretty pink dress. It goes to my cleavage.
And nothing, not one thing before this, has felt this right.
Him watching me so shamelessly. So raptly.
Him watching the flush on my skin. The goosebumps. Him noticing how tight and swollen my breasts are under my dress when he’s so close to them. When he’s staring at them with a singular focus.
So much so that his mouth parts.
And he drags in a deep breath at the sight of my heavy breasts, and then I can’t stop myself.
From dropping down at his feet.
“What the…”
He finally comes out of his stupor, jerking in the chair so violently that my sketchpad slips from his lap. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Bringing my hands down to his tight, tight thighs, I whisper, “Telling you that I don’t have what I really want.”
His jaw snaps shut for a second before commanding, “Get off the fucking floor now.”
Shaking my head, I rub my open palms up and down his thighs and they tighten even more if possible. “I want something else.”
His hands fist on the arms of the chair, the tendons on his wrist standing taut. “Get off the floor. Now.”
I dig my fingers in his taut muscles. “No.”
He watches me then. With such a... violence. Such an angry, belligerent look that I bite my lip, feeling slightly guilty for aggravating him again.
I bite my lip harder when he opens his mouth and then shuts it before doing it for the second time. Followed by closing his eyes and taking another deep breath.
As if controlling himself.
Like he did back at the tree.
When he has controlled himself, he opens his lids, his eyes looking as violent as ever, and he says, “Just when I think…” He pauses, his fists tightening. “Just when I think I’ve made you understand, I’ve made you behave, I’ve fucking gotten your bad behavior under control, you pull something like this. You…” He pauses again, this time to pinch the bridge of his nose before banging the armrest with his fist. “Get off the floor right now. Get off. And get the fuck over your teenage obsession, you understand? Right the fuck now. I’m warning you, or I’ll make it hurt more than I did before. Trust me on that. Fucking take my word on that, Bronwyn.”
I clench my thighs at how… teacher-ly he sounds.
How stern and authoritative.
How fucking sexy.
I peek at him through my eyelashes, which only manages to aggravate him more. “This is not teenage obsession.”
“Yeah, then what the fuck is it?” he snaps, almost glaring at me.
“This is me… thanking you.”
That makes him go still.
That makes him stop breathing as he bites out, “What?”
I swallow.
I dig my nails into his unforgiving thighs as I tell him what I knew I would have to. In order to convince him. It’s not a lie but it’s not the whole truth either.
Especially now.
Especially when I’ve just admitted to myself that I’m in love with him.
“I know you think you’re my soccer coach and —”
“I fucking am.”
“And that you’re older than me. Much older. And you’ve got a sister my age, a sister who’s my best friend.” He grinds his teeth here. “But you’re more than that. To me. You’re the man who changed my life. Who set me free. Who gave me things I didn’t even know I wanted.” This has never been truer than it is now after how he apologized for lying. “And I’m more as well. To you. I’m the girl you helped. I’m the girl you saved. That night. In so many ways. And so I want to give you things too.”