Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“I need a minute,” Harley grunts.
“We’ll be in the kitchen,” the woman says, but I can’t lift my chin from where it dropped to my chest to give her a grateful smile.
Two pairs of feet shuffle as they leave the room, but when I move to rush out the front door, Harley stops me once again.
I don’t look up at him. I can’t. I’m already so full of embarrassment, I don’t know what it will do to me emotionally if I see just one more ounce of anger and regret in his eyes. I doubt he has any idea what this back-and-forth is doing to me, and I just don’t have it in me to explain, not with his parents in the kitchen, probably listening intently to hear any conversation we may have.
His hand cups my cheek, a warm gesture, not the regretful one I expect, and when I look up at him, I don’t find any of the things I anticipated.
His gaze is warm and comforting, apologetic even for being caught in such a compromising position by his parents. With slow movements, he presses against me, backing me up against the wall. The interruption didn’t do anything for his erection, and he grinds it against me.
“I want to fuck you so badly,” he whispers as he lowers his mouth to mine.
I turn my head, causing his lips to meet my cheek.
What does he honestly expect right now? Does he really think I’ll let him drag me out of the room to get in a quick fuck while his parents wait in the other room? Is that all he wants from me?
I choke back a sob and shake my head. I have to get away from him.
“Please?”
The word makes me glare at him, and the desperation is almost enough to make me give in, but a clatter from the kitchen makes me wake up to exactly what this situation is.
“I won’t be the cliché nanny fucking the dad,” I mutter, sliding out from in front of him and rushing to the front door.
I’m in tears by the time I make it to the SUV. Boomer, noticing my distress, doesn’t say a word as I climb inside. He simply reaches across the console and pulls me in for a hug, something I don’t realize I need until I cling to him desperately.
Chapter 22
Harley
Disgraced.
That’s the only way I can describe how I feel as I walk into the kitchen to join my parents.
I felt free with her in my arms, and as fiercely as I wanted to hold on to that feeling, it faded the second she stepped away from me.
Familiar guilt engulfs me when I meet my mother’s eyes, but she doesn’t look at me as if I’ve broken a covenant.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, my head dipping under the weight of the shame I feel.
“We should apologize for walking in like we owned the place,” Dad offers.
“What you walked in on in there…” I begin.
“Is none of our business,” Dad says.
I shake my head, not needing them to be so helpful right now when I know I deserve something worse from them.
I look up again, begging with my eyes for my mother not to see me as someone who would do something so out of character. They caught Lana and me in even more compromising positions because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, but there’s a sadness in my mother’s eyes right now that I’ve never seen.
Her eyes tell her truth, and her shame in me makes me feel the same way.
“I know you’re disappointed in me,” I tell her.
She shakes her head. “I’m not.”
Lying right now doesn’t help any of us.
“If it helps,” I continue. “I feel it too. I’ve betrayed my vows.”
My throat threatens to seize with my confession. Although I’ve felt it over and over where Ali is concerned, I’ve never voiced it before.
“You haven’t betrayed your vows, son,” Dad says, that sureness in his tone I’ve grown to trust.
I can’t trust it now, however. I don’t feel that overwhelming sense of rightness with his assurance.
I feel burdened with my parents witnessing my downfall, fearful I’ll lose their respect because of my actions.
“If you feel like it’s time to move on, then it’s time. No one can determine when that is but you.” Mom’s voice is shaky, on the verge of tears, and I’ve always hated when Mom cried.
She hasn’t done it much in recent years, but when I was younger, a boy of only five or six, I would stand outside her room and listen as she sobbed, promising to be the best kid ever so she’d never have to regret my presence. I was a good kid, a great kid even, but there were times that I’d still catch her sniffling in her room late at night.