Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Row fell asleep like a sack of bricks not even a minute after he made that sexy declaration. I went to the bathroom to pee, and when I came back, the cigarette was in the ashtray, still not put out all the way. He was snoring, his cheek smushed against a pillow, his long, curly lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks.
Hello, awkward, my old friend.
I put out the cigarette and emptied the ashtray, then slipped into the bed and turned my head to his nightstand. The clock said it was three in the morning. He’d had a long day. So had I. But since not getting sleep was my new norm, I hardly ever felt tired anymore.
It was time to do the walk of shame. If I still had any muscles in me, that was. That orgasm had sucked the energy right out of me. If this was an appetizer, Row was right: full-blown sex with him would leave me in a puddle of bodily fluids and a tattoo neck choker.
Dylan would have a field day delivering the obituary.
She died doing what she loved—fucking my older brother.
But she was wrong. Privately, I knew, Row had never been just my best friend’s older brother. He was the boy I’d confessed to that I had never learned how to slow dance before prom. It had been in his kitchen, while Dylan was upstairs making out with Darren from the lacrosse team. I had been supposed to distract Row by talking to him. Row had regarded me with a frown, arm still slung on the open fridge door. “You don’t need to know how to slow dance. Boys are assholes and you should stay away from them.”
I had given him a pointed look. He’d rolled his eyes in exasperation, slamming the fridge shut and rummaging in his front pocket for his phone. “It’s really not that hard.” He had scowled, choosing a song. “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden. My all-time favorite nineties song. I had thought it was a coincidence. Kismet. He’d tossed his phone on the table and opened his arms. “Come in.”
Entering his embrace had been like walking straight into home. He’d slung my arms around his shoulders—I’d had to stand on my toes to get there—and wrapped his hands around my waist. We’d swayed to the music, staring into each other’s eyes, and in that moment, he had broken my heart. Because I had known I would never experience anything remotely as perfect ever again.
Now, I gingerly scooted toward the edge of the bed. As soon as I moved an inch, Row’s heavy arm fell directly on my chest like a tree, pinning me in place. That thing was at least five hundred pounds before the fancy Rolex. I exhaled, toying with the idea of waking him up. But he looked so peaceful and tranquil. Almost childlike.
I patted the nightstand behind me blindly, grabbed my phone, and texted my mom that I was okay, alive, and sleeping at the inn, then put my phone down. I was fully prepared to stare at the ceiling until dawn.
Blinking back at the darkness, I began sailing down the river of my thoughts. But something about Row’s deep, calm breaths, the weight of his arm against my chest like a heavy blanket, and the way I felt just right—like I was exactly where I was supposed to be—stopped me from overthinking.
Then, something truly wonderful happened. A switch flicked in my head. Something shifted in my chemistry.
And for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep.
Rays of winter sunshine filtered through the windows.
But they weren’t what woke me up. No. That was Row’s snoring.
I rolled to my side, eyeing him. Joy spread across my chest, filling it with giddiness. His arm no longer imprisoned me. It was now tossed over his eyes, blocking the sunlight from his face.
“I’ve been dreaming about your glittery pink lipstick smeared all over my dick.”
I took it as consent. It was time to return a favor.
I reached for my pants on the floor and rummaged through the pockets, producing my Juicy Tubes gloss. I always kept one with me. You never knew when you needed to look fabulous. I applied a generous coat, smacking my lips together. I ran my fingers through my hair before flinging the duvet off him. His black sweatpants displayed his morning wood, and my mouth watered at the idea of him filling it.
I peeled his sweatpants down an inch, glancing up to check if he stirred. He was still dead to the world. I inched his pants farther down. His dick sprung out. As far as penises went, this one was gorgeous enough to be on the cover of GQ, wearing a cowboy hat and a serious frown. It had a smooth crown, a long, veiny shaft, and just the right amount of trimmed groin hair.