Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I keep shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk about letters.”
“I just didn’t know how silky. I couldn’t even imagine how fucking soft and rounded and ripe your body would be. How much I’d want to bite it with my teeth, squeeze it with my fingers. Eat you like the piece of fruit you are. Like a peach, maybe.” I feel him getting even closer, still not touching, though, but so, so close. “Or a cherry. A red and juicy cherry that you want to suck on.”
“I—”
“And the thing is, you really are a cherry, aren’t you.”
“What?”
“Untouched and innocent.”
“I—”
“Ripe but so fucking tight.”
I clench my legs again. “Just stop.”
“So maybe when I saw you last night, I lost my mind. But there’s one flaw in this whole thing.”
“What f-flaw?”
“You would’ve felt it.”
“I don’t—”
“You would’ve felt me inside you. Pulsing and throbbing and fucking stretching you out. Even when I tranqed you, you would’ve felt me breaking you in and making you bleed. Because I’m just that big, darlin’, and you’re just that small.”
Why did he have to say that? Why did he have to call me darlin’ and in a way that reminds me of melted butter and sticky syrup?
“Don’t call me that,” I protest.
“So no, I didn’t touch you,” he finishes. “Because if I had, you wouldn’t have slept through it. That place between your thighs would be so sore and throbbing you wouldn’t be able to sit in the car like you did, driving me crazy with your buttercup scent and your sassy mouth.” Then, “Besides, I don’t stick my dick in a Turner. And you’re a Turner, aren’t you? So as I said, you’re safe.”
At last, I spin around and look up at him.
His eyes are dark and lazy, heavy-lidded, and there’s a flush up high on his cheekbones. But I ignore all of it, including the fact that I probably look the same, and say, “Stop using that word. Stop saying safe. I’m not safe with you. How can I be safe with you? You keep lying. You keep hiding the truth. You keep manipulating me, forcing me, threatening me. I don’t… How am I supposed to be with you? What am I supposed to do? You ruined my life, do you realize that? Do you realize how hard it is to be with you? And I… I can’t… I can’t do this. This is… You have to promise me. You have to freaking promise me that you won’t lie. You…” I grab my forehead, looking away. “God, what am I doing, what am I doing? You’re never going to promise me anything. You don’t care about me. You never did. You’re selfish and manipulative and cruel and I’m stuck with you. I’m—”
“Okay.”
I blink, feeling dizzy. “What?”
His heavy-lidded eyes are back to normal and the flush that made his cheekbones look all sharp and brutal is gone. He says, “I won’t lie.”
I take a few seconds to respond: “You won’t.”
“You are stuck with me,” he says, his gaze boring into me. “You’re stuck with me for as long as I want because I forced you to sign on the dotted line. So the least I can do is make a vow to never lie to you.”
“A vow?”
He keeps his dark gaze steady. “Consider it my wedding vow.”
To: Bo Porter
From: Peyton Turner
Dear Bo,
I just hit submit on my assignment. Like, literally five minutes ago.
Not that you asked for it but I’m sending you a copy of what I wrote. I do think I’ve managed to scrape at least a C+ so prepare yourself to be dazzled. Oh and of course, thank you so much for all the help. You did annoy me at times and there were a couple of occasions when I really wanted to strangle you but overall, you were great.
Now I’m sitting at my usual place—my desk by the window overlooking my favorite tree and I know you didn’t ask but they aren’t cutting it down anymore; all that neighborhood rallying seems to have worked!—and writing you this letter. I’m also grinning like a crazy person in case you haven’t figured that part out yet.
But I also realized something. There’s no reason for us to talk anymore. I came to you for my assignment and it’s over now. So we could say goodbye to each other except I don’t think I want to.
I don’t want to stop writing to you. I don’t want to stop waiting for your letter every Friday. Every week like clockwork, I finish my classes and my shift at the library, and race back to my apartment. I whip open my red mailbox and there you always are. Waiting for me inside a white prison stamped envelope. Usually I tear you open right there, standing on the side of the street because I’m so excited to see you, your words. I’m so excited to find out how they’ll affect me.