Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“I’m gonna…I’m com…oh…fuuuuck.” My whole body judders, the muscles in my legs clench, as jets of creamy, hot cum spurt from the tip of my cock, coating James’ stomach.
“So fucking beautiful,” he spits through gritted teeth, red heat crawling across his collarbones as he drives into me one last time, his cock pulsating inside me. “Fuck, yes.”
I give him a moment to come down from the high, for his body to stop quivering, then I pull him onto my chest. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’m not sure where we go from here.”
Stroking his flushed cheek, I smile. A simple action, yet one filled with so much love, so much hope…so many promises. “Forward,” I whisper, running my fingers through his damp hair. “One breath,” I kiss his lips again. “One kiss…at a time.”
Going forward won’t be easy, especially for James. He has a lot to work through, a lot of demons to face and healing to do, but while he does I will be here. Right by his side. Always.
“You’ll be okay.”
Nodding, just slightly, he kisses my cheek. “I’ll be okay.”
Epilogue
~James~
One year later…
“Come in,” I bark to whoever just knocked on my office door. I’m using my lunch break to polish my latest novel, a story loosely based on my life and experiences with mental health. It was Peter’s idea. At first, I laughed in his face, then started writing it purely to prove him wrong. But, much to my annoyance, he was right.
The characters are fictional, and only Theodore and I would be able to see just how much truth there is to their story, but I’m not writing a confession to the world. I’m doing it because it’s therapeutic. Writing this book has been a life altering process, allowing the thoughts and feelings I’ve suppressed for so many years to bleed onto the page without fear of shame or judgement...because it’s ‘fiction.’
So, yes, Peter was right, and he took a disgusting amount of pleasure from hearing those words slip from my mouth. When he’s not pissing me off, Peter and I get on great. I gave up hope many years ago of ever being ‘normal’, but working with Peter has made me realise I don’t have to be ‘normal’ to be happy. So what if my brain is wired wrong? It hasn’t stopped me being successful. It hasn’t stopped me forming relationships, loving people, letting them love me. And if my fuse trips, I have faith in the people around me to help me fix it back in place.
As Peter must’ve said a thousand times, broken crayons can still colour.
I’ve learned to talk, recognise my triggers, ask for help when I need it. I’ve also told a handful of trusted colleagues about my illness, built up a support system in case things spiral again. That doesn’t make me weak. It makes me determined. I know what it’s like to walk along the shore, and I won’t risk drowning in the black waters again. I have too much to fight for, to live for.
Looking up briefly from the manuscript I’m working on, I see Mike striding towards my desk. “What can I help you with?” I ask, frustrated by his interruption.
“I’ve drawn up the contract for Patricia Dennis.”
“She’s a gay fiction writer.”
“I know, but-”
“Then present it to Theodore.”
Huffing, Mike slaps his file closed. Three months ago we opened a new division dedicated to gay fiction and LGBT romance. Theodore manages the department, not because we live together, but because he fucking earned it. The concept was his idea, he drew up the plans, worked out the finances, and brought Stacey on board to help him bring it all together.
I’m not sure how this affects Mike in the slightest, and he knows better than to voice his disapproval to my face, but it’s glaringly obvious that it pisses him the hell off to have Theodore on a level playing field.
I returned to work a month after being discharged from hospital last year and the business was struggling for the first time in years. With support from Theodore and guidance from my financial advisor, we closed down three departments and started contracting out to freelancers. It was a difficult stage, one which I was only marginally strong enough to cope with at the time, but I got through it, the business got through it, and now we’re almost back to where we were when my father died.
That is, in part, credit to Theodore’s enthusiasm, hard work, and determination to make our expansion into LGBT fiction a success. He still writes, and is about to release his first book through the company, but his main focus is on Holden House. On a professional level, I have nothing but praise and the utmost respect for Theodore. On a personal level, I love him with all my heart. He saved my life. He continues to save it every single day. He’s my hope, my strength, my reason to carry on. He’s the best friend I always imagined having.
He’s my everything.
“I just thought,” Mike replies. “Your office is closer.”
“I’m the CEO, Mike, not your errand boy. Anything else?”
“No,” he says, head down as he turns away.
“Oh and, Mike?”
“Yes?”
“When you get back, black – two sugars.” I’m not even thirsty, but the cocky bastard brings out my petulant side.
“No problem,” he agrees, in a tone laced with copious amounts of fuck you. It makes me smile.
Once alone, I call Max to double-check the time Isobel finishes school. Theodore and I are picking her up and taking her home for dinner. It’s become a regular Friday routine since Laura, Max’s wife, began an evening floristry course at the local college two months ago. Two months, and I still can’t remember what time she finishes school.
We have lots of routines these days. Every night, bar Friday’s, after work, we jog together – sometimes around the block, others at the park. It always ends in a competition and I always win. My legs are longer, but I tell Theodore it’s simply because I’m fitter than him.