Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Irritated with my inability to keep him from my thoughts, I scrape my hands over my face with a growl, wishing I could just circle the drain and wash it away instead of facing the rest of Cerberus today. I hoped that by being celibate, I’d be able to avoid this conversation, but the urges last night after he brushed his lips over mine were just too strong to ignore. Kissing him at that point wasn’t a want. It quickly became a need, a must. I couldn’t see myself surviving if I walked away, never having his tongue brush mine. It was like trying to breathe while submerged in a hundred feet of water… impossible.
What I can accept is that last night was a slipup that can’t happen again, even after facing my team as my truths come to light.
I continue to take my time, toweling off slowly, ignoring the heavy length between my thighs as I refuse to give into that weakness. I know it’s not Drake’s fault. Not many people live by the same rules I do. They aren’t disciplined. They aren’t weighed down by the remorse of their sins. Many don’t see what they do as sins at all, and that’s okay too. My journey and theirs aren’t the same.
I know I shouldn’t either. My religious upbringing should no longer affect me the way that it does. I’ve done so much research on religion since limping away from the compound at eighteen. I know all about the discrepancies and that all religious books were written and rewritten and edited and reedited to fit whatever agenda people had at the time. I know that texts have been altered over hundreds of years. I can even accept that there’s more evidence that God doesn’t exist than there is that he does.
My guilt is no more a choice than my sexuality is. I don’t want to feel bad. I want to have fun and fall in love with a man that loves me just as much as I love him. I want happiness and a family. I want to consider adopting kids and raising them to be respectful men and women, rather than feeling like a pervert for bringing children into a home with prevalent homosexuality. I want to smile at a good-looking man without having to worry if he’s going to follow me until I’m alone and beat me to death. I want to love and be loved without fear of going to Hell for being happy.
I want a lot of things I know I’ll never have.
I’m no closer to knowing what I’ll say to my teammates as I get dressed than I was when I first woke up.
Telling them I’m celibate because of beliefs I just can’t seem to shake makes it sound like I have a problem with anyone else who may live that lifestyle, and that would never be my intention.
I grab my phone and the keys to my motorcycle, understanding now, especially after what Ugly said about Aro last night, why Slick has been taking so many rides lately. The urge to hit the open road for a few days is nipping at my boots like an unavoidable thing, and I know I won’t be able to resist it for very much longer.
My phone screen flashes, and the notifications covering the screen are unfamiliar.
I don’t have many people I keep in contact with outside of Cerberus. I haven’t spoken to anyone in my family or back at the compound since the day I left.
Unknown: Thanks for the kiss.
Unknown: You’ve been holding out on me.
Unknown: Apology accepted.
I know exactly who the texts are from, but it doesn’t stop me from staring down at the messages as if an alien has somehow gotten my cell phone number.
Who is this? I text back, unsure that I shouldn’t block his number the second I hit send.
I expect a written message when my phone buzzes again, but instead, I look down and find a picture of Drake, shirtless, his eyes sleepy, his smile perfectly charming, looking back at me.
The man has the ability to break every damn vow I’ve made to myself. Getting flirted with by the sexy bartender was my guilty pleasure. The words helped ease that part inside of me that was begging to be unleashed without actually taking any steps I would later regret.
Then came the brush of the hand at the bar and the comforting hand squeeze at the store. It left me wanting more. It left me aching for something I know I can’t have.
This picture is ten times worse as far as my restraint is concerned. My finger hovers over the delete button, but I just can’t manage to pull the trigger.
Instead, I save his contact information before getting lost for a long moment in the sight of the strategic placing of the photo, and how I can get just a hint of that trail of hair below his navel. I would’ve guessed that he was fit with the way his clothes clung to him, but seeing it is a whole other story. The ridges on his abdomen make my mouth water. The ink covering his muscled chest makes my fingers itch to trace each of the dark lines slowly, repeatedly.