Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Sitting up, I unspool some of last night. “He’s very, very giving.”
Harlow wiggles a brow. “I do love a giving man.”
“Like borderline obsessed,” I say. “He did things to me I’d only read about.”
“Like?” Layla asks.
I bite my lip, getting lost in the memory. “He kept me up late with orgasms. And he made sure I would never forget it.”
My apartment is quiet for a moment until Harlow sighs with envy. “That’s hot,” she says finally.
And it is hot. It was an intense night of pleasure, and, surprisingly, trust.
Trust that we would keep each other’s secrets.
Still riding that wave, I look around at my friends and breathe in their acceptance and understanding. In this moment, I’m not just the bold one, the one who plans the nights out, the one who has the killer poker face.
I’m one of them. Like I’ve wanted to be.
“He made me beg for orgasms. And he spent his sweet time drawing them out of me,” I say, getting into the details a little more. “What did you call him earlier, Cam?”
With a proud smile, she says, “The King of Edging.”
Layla whistles. “Damn, girl.”
“He’s the one from the private party?” Harlow asks, remembering what I told them two weeks ago.
I can say that, right? Surely, they don’t know Finn frequents a kink club, of sorts. “Yes.”
“So,” Layla says, twirling a strand of hair, “will you see him again?”
My heart sags. “It’s complicated, but I don’t think so.”
Layla’s brow knits. “Why the hell not? He sent you panties. A man doesn’t send an after-sex gift unless he wants to see you again.”
Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Why didn’t I anticipate this part of the confession? The pressing. The questions. The why not.
But I don’t have to explain the specifics. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, romance doesn’t last anyway. “It was just a one-time thing. We’re both busy with our lives. Maybe it’s for the best,” I say. I glance around at their sympathetic faces and…fuck it.
“I don’t really trust that easily. My college ex read my journals and used all the details in them against me for weeks.”
“What?” Layla’s upper lip curls with disgust.
“He did,” I confirm. “So, it’s not like I’m dying to have a boyfriend.” I pop up from the bed and make my way to my closet. “But I am dying to go out.”
That’s true too. I’m grateful I got that out so they’ll know and understand me, but mostly, I’m ready to have some fun.
Later that night, when I’m alone again in my home, the scent of lavender calming me and the stars my only companions, I take out my journal. The card slips out, and I look at the front—an image of stars in a blue sky—then the words inside. I’ve memorized them. I’ve known them for a long time, but still, I read them. It always brings me a sense of peace, this quote from The Little Prince.
Then, I tell Willa what I did tonight.
When I re-read my secret language to her, I want to shake this record of my thoughts at Brandon. Shake it with a satisfied sneer. You’d never be able to figure me out now.
Never.
Then I lock it up.
I don’t ever want anyone to read my private thoughts again.
14
BEFORE HIM
Finn
As I head to meet Tate on Sunday morning, I feel like I’m putting on a mask.
It’s not something I want to do with my friend. I detest lying, but there’s no getting around it. When my brother hid his relationship with Layla from his son, back when they were first dating, I advised Nick to stop sneaking around. But this weekend, I was the one sneaking around. But this weekend is over. It’s behind me.
I need to get into the exercise zone ASAP. I spot Tate stretching his quads next to the bench by the entrance to the High Line and jog over to him.
He looks up, business as usual, and gives a curt nod.
I act like nothing has changed since Thursday. Which, I suppose, it hasn’t.
“Surprised you showed up,” he says gruffly. He does nearly everything gruffly, except write airtight contracts. That’s why I like him. He’s straightforward in life and diligent in business.
“Because I’m usually such a no-show,” I deadpan.
He clears his throat, a reminder that I bailed in advance yesterday.
Yeah, I’m not going there. I nod to the running path, which at seven a.m. is already teeming with weekend warriors. “I stretched at home. Let’s do this, old man,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you.”
It’s an easy target, but I take it. When your buddy is eight years older than you, you can always rib him for being old.
The trash talk covers up my guilt and so does the exercise.
The morning air is cool, the light catching the edges of buildings, creating a golden glow. We weave through the stream of joggers, hitting a brisk pace quickly.