Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I can’t see him like this.
“You want the truth, don’t you?” he rasps. “Here’s the truth: you didn’t ruin anything for me. You didn’t take away my job. I quit. You didn’t make me move halfway across the country, I did it myself. I did it because everything they say about me is correct. I wanted you to think that I hated you, I wanted you to go away because whatever they think I am is true. I am dangerous. I am diseased. I belong on the fringes of society. I belong in fucking jail. They can’t trust me around their kids. No one can trust me. I’m sick, you understand? I am everything that they say I am. Every filthy, vile, criminal thing.”
My fingers fist his hair. They clench and flex. They tug and pull at his strands.
It’s like they’re going into shock. They’re spasming.
How can he say that about himself? How can he not see that he’s different, this fucking amazing?
Instead of giving in to his desires, he chose to ignore them. He chose to hate himself, torture himself, remove himself from my presence.
If he’d given me one hint, one sliver of a clue that he wanted me, I would’ve done anything for him. Anything at all.
If he’d wanted it to be a secret, I would’ve been his dirty little secret.
If he’d wanted everyone to know, I would’ve screamed it from the rooftops.
How does he not see any of this?
I’ll make him see, though. I will.
So I blurt out the only thing I can think of. “They called me a slut.”
He pauses.
His heavy, noisy breathing stops and his eyes, brimming with hot emotions, go cold. “What?”
“There were rumors and gossip and…” I swallow, trying to gather my thoughts. “They’d make up stories about me. People would recognize me on the street and stop me and talk to me and say things to me. I’d get all these emails and they were, like, really bad and they all called me names. They called me a slut for throwing myself on you. They said that that’s what I do, I go for older guys and all of that. And…”
I lower my eyes and look at his throat. It’s flushed around his collarbone, droplets of his shower still sticking to the skin.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this story because I’m not going down the anxiety route. Because, hello? I’m fine. So I’m not telling that but I’m telling him something.
I have to tell him something; I can’t let him think the worst of himself.
I have to make it better. I have to.
“Tell me what happened,” he says in a low, pulsating voice. “Tell me what they did.”
With stuttered breaths, I look up at him and see all this anger on his face.
On my behalf.
It makes my stomach clench in that achy way that I used to feel whenever I thought about him in my bed. Achy and heavy that I felt last night, and I whisper, divulging my illicit secrets. “I had this pillow and when everyone would go to sleep, I’d put it between my legs. I’d press down on it. Really hard. And after a while, when I’d get really restless, I’d begin to rock. I’d rock against it and I’d bite my lip. Because I’d want to moan and call out your name. But I’d be afraid that someone might hear me. So I’d keep quiet and I’d keep going. I’d keep rocking against the pillow because I wanted you so much.”
I can’t believe I’m telling him this.
I watch a crimson flush overcome his cheeks. I watch the dilation of his pupils, his breaths going low and heavy, as if he’s sleeping, but I don’t think he’s ever been more awake.
More aware.
Because I’m the same way and I can tell.
“A-and we had this maid, she’d do our laundry and everything. And she’d come to my room to change the sheets and she’d always give me this look. Because I think she could… she could smell me on them. She could see the wet spots and then, when everything happened, I heard her talking to Fiona downstairs and she was calling me a slut. Like everyone else.”
I’ve been breathing really hard through this. Panting, almost. But then he puts his hands on me and my lungs forget to draw in a breath.
My heart forgets to beat.
My eyes go wide and I have to look down.
I have to see his hands on me. They are wrapped around my waist. His bronzed fingers over my red dress. They are so long, his hands, that he can span my entire waist with them.
His thumbs meet in the middle where my belly button is, and they dig into my flesh, press into it, and my thighs clench.
But not only my thighs; my core clenches too.