Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
And still, I can’t sleep. Fitz’s confession plays in my mind, and I question everything in the universe. I question the meaning of life. Is it really just a random chain of events? A ping-ponging set of circumstances? If destiny is nothing more than a cliché used to sell books and movies, then how did I find my uncle? Is that a coincidence? And how have I fallen in love with a man so intimately connected to my newfound family?
It doesn’t make sense. It’s not destiny. It’s a nightmare.
I worm my way out of bed without waking Fitz, and I tiptoe down the stairs, feeling thirsty, anxious, and on the verge of hyperventilating. This won’t work. I’m not a good liar. I can’t pretend I’m not hiding this massive secret from Fitz.
I gulp a glass of water and stand at the sliding door overlooking the shed in the soft glow of the adjacent streetlight. I was so drawn to this place when I saw the pictures. It felt right. It felt like my destiny.
The floor creaks behind me, and I startle.
“What are you doing?” Fitz’s groggy voice ghosts along my ear with his lips. His hands slide around my waist.
I continue to stare out the window while his touch brings a rush of tears to my eyes. I rub them like I’m tired, the wet emotion smearing across my cheeks. “Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur.
“No?” He gathers my nightshirt in one hand while his other hand slips down the front of my panties.
I close my eyes and rest the back of my head against him, hoping for a reprieve from the leaky emotions. I need this.
The distraction.
The escape.
The connection to the person I fear losing the most.
I press one hand flat to the window while my other guides one of his to my breast. Yes. I need this, to get lost in how he makes me feel so alive, so wanted and needed.
“Baby, spread your legs for me.”
“Fitz,” I moan. “Say that again.”
He could turn me on with nothing more than his lips at my ear, whispering dirty words. They’re an electrical charge in my veins, dizzying and powerful.
“Baby.” He slides his leg between mine, nudging them apart. “Spread your legs for me.”
With my arousal coating his middle two fingers, he works them inside me, drawing a sharp gasp from my open mouth—the heel of his hand rubbing my clit. His other hand squeezes my breast and tugs at my nipple until it’s hard between his fingers.
“Give me your mouth,” he says just before his tongue draws a line from my shoulder to my jaw.
I turn my head as far as I can, and he covers my mouth with his. Our tongues collide, making deep strokes together. I gasp for a breath and drop my chin to my chest, both hands pressed to the glass.
He removes his briefs and slides my panties down my legs. Guiding his warm, wet erection between my legs, he whispers in my ear, “Shh . . .”
I grunt, biting my lips together when he drives into me. My knees lock, and my nails scrape along the window. His hands take the weight of my breasts, pulling my back a little straighter as we fall into a rhythm. Each of his breaths grows louder and harsher. And I lose myself in him and the life I want with him.
I fall first.
Muscles spasming. Knees buckling. My jaw slacks in a silent scream while my heart thrashes around in my chest.
“Oh fuckfuckfuck . . .” Both of his hands move to my hips as he grinds into me, stills, and collapses forward so his hands are pressed to the window above mine. He pants at my ear, body relaxed and replete.
When we catch our breath, I turn into him, and he wraps me in his arms. His hand ghosts up my back, beneath my hair, and his fingers stroke my neck.
He’s mine.
Fitz says he loves me in silent but humongous, heart-wrenching ways.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Last week, Fitz drove me to the airport and kissed me goodbye. We parted with the promise of spending Thanksgiving together in Missoula, including Edith, while Maren and Will are with their families.
I’ve left two messages with the private investigator, asking him to abort his search, but he hasn’t returned my call.
It’s hard to be around Dwight without feeling different. Whether his ramblings seem coherent or complete gibberish, they are impossible for me to ignore. More than that, it’s difficult not to ask him more questions.
In fact, it’s impossible.
“Did Samantha have children?” I ask.
Today, he’s not well. The last shift reported him vomiting during the night. His skin is paler than usual, and he hasn’t been out of bed today. But he’s trying to eat some fruit for me.
Deep lines spread across his forehead. “No. She couldn’t have kids.”