Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
It gives me a minute to clean up my mess, then gather a fresh pair of gloves for her. While in the process of doing that, reality crashes back into me, reminding me of what a piece of shit I am. What the fuck did I just do? A bottle of liquor on the sideboard beckons to me, but I hold off, wanting to make sure she gets out the door first at least.
“I should get dressed.” I step back, snapping up the towel and wrapping it around my hips, trying to put distance between us before I do something stupid like pull her back into my arms. “And you should probably …”
Go before I drink myself into oblivion because we can’t spend the next two days fucking like animals.
“Go,” she finishes for me. Sadness fills her eyes, and it guts me like a fucking fish. I’m such an asshole. I open my mouth to comment on it, to tell her I don’t really want her to go, but then she blinks, and it’s gone. “Yes. I should … I need to …”
She rises from the bed and starts to gather her things, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. I want to help, but I know touching her right now would be dangerous.
Instead, I watch her rip off her old gloves, which seems an almost intimate act in and of itself after what we just did. She slips into a fresh pair and checks them three times. Once in place, she quickly dresses and smooths her sweater exactly four times. I can tell anxiety, confusion, and maybe even fear are settling in, the impact of what we did, what I allowed to happen. She counts her steps to the door six times before actually reaching for the handle.
“Salem—”
“Don’t.” She doesn’t turn around. “Please don’t make this more awkward than it already is. We just got carried away. The medication, the adrenaline from Aries, you being … well …” She gestures vaguely at my towel. “It’s fine. We’re fine. Everything is still fine.”
She’s lying. I’m lying. We’re lying, and we both know it.
FOURTEEN
salem
It wasn’t as awkward as I imagined it would be to have sex with my fake boyfriend. I was more embarrassed about the fact that I had taken his medication and acted so boldly.
Yeah, it was terrifying but also exhilarating, and it proved to me that I was still normal, not completely broken. That’s what I think about as I watch the sunlight filtering through the coffee shop windows, the rays catching on Lee’s eyelashes and making them look almost golden as he dozes off in the chair across from me. It’s been a week, and it hasn’t happened again, nor have we discussed it.
I watch him openly, but only because he’s partially asleep. I would never be brave enough to do such a thing if he were awake. In my mind, there is nothing more that I could possibly be embarrassed about, not after I let him see me naked and basically begged him to fuck me, but that’s a lie. I’m still bashful and insecure in his presence.
Unlike him, it’s difficult for me to be as open with my emotions and thoughts. Sometimes I envy him. Other times, I wonder what consequences there must be for always baring your heart to the world.
My gaze cuts from his eyelashes to roam over his strong jawline and finally the tendons in his throat. I bite my bottom lip, thinking about pressing kisses against his throat again.
As if I would ever be brave enough to do such a thing of my own volition?
His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that I find myself counting without meaning to.
One, two, three breaths.
Again.
Again.
I adjust my calculus textbook three millimeters to the left, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table. Lee cleaned the surface for me when we arrived—three careful swipes with sanitizing wipes. He made no complaints and asked no questions, just like he’s done every day for the past two months.
Two months of pretending.
Two months of counting together.
Two months of trying to convince myself this is still fake.
I don’t think I can make that argument after the other day. It doesn’t feel fake anymore.
He shifts in his sleep, locks of dark hair falling across his forehead, and my fingers itch to brush them back. Get a grip, Salem. I clench them in my lap instead, the nitrile squeaking.
The sound makes the sides of his mouth lift in a small smile, even unconscious. It’s crazy how attuned to my habits he is, recognizing the small sounds of my anxiety even when he’s asleep, like they’re his own soundtrack.
“I can feel you counting my breaths, Pantry Girl,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.
Oh god. He caught me.
I have no reason to be embarrassed, yet heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not—”