Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
When he reaches my breasts, he cups them both in his hands and groans.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”
He takes the right nipple in his mouth first, then shifts—slowly, reverently—to the left. His tongue circles the metal of the piercing before pulling it between his lips, warm and wet. I arch my back, gasping, and he does it again, slower this time, his eyes never leaving mine in the mirror.
“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, flicking the tip of his tongue against the ring.
“Yes—fuck—yes.”
He kisses a trail down my stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my shorts and tugging them down, along with my panties. He drags me to the edge of the desk again, kneels between my thighs, and grips my hips like he needs them to breathe.
“Spread your legs wider,” he says, his voice guttural.
When I do, he lowers his mouth to me, tongue flicking over my clit in one slow, teasing pass. Then another. Then deeper. His tongue moves with maddening precision—flicking, circling, flattening—until my whole body’s trembling.
He grips my thighs tighter, holding me open, and buries his mouth in me. The sounds he makes—needy, unfiltered—match my own. I buck against his face, moaning his name, and he groans into me, sending vibrations up my spine.
“Look at me,” he says roughly.
I force my eyes open, meeting his through the mirror just as he sucks hard on my clit. My hips jerk. I cry out. My hands grip the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing holding me to Earth.
When the orgasm hits, it’s shattering.
I fall apart on his mouth, calling his name, legs clenching around his head. He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking through it, drinking every last second of it down.
By the time I collapse backward, boneless and gasping, I feel him rise to his feet.
He presses a soft kiss to the inside of my knee, then my hip, then back to my pierced nipple, sucking gently as if in apology.
Then he disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water running.
When he returns, he’s holding a warm towel. He kneels again, cleaning me carefully, tenderly. Then he lifts me from the desk and carries me to the bed.
He tucks the blanket around me and curls his body around mine.
“I’ll leave before sunrise,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my temple. “But I don’t want to.”
I close my eyes, but I don’t sleep. Not yet.
Not while his arms are still around me.
18
COLE
Emily’s still asleep when I slip out.
Her fingers twitch once as I pull away, like some part of her knows I’m leaving. I pause at the door, just long enough to memorize the way her breath lifts the blanket, the way her hair fans over the pillow like a question she’s still waiting for me to answer.
Outside, the hallway is cold and dim. I coast past the other cabins in silence, careful not to wake the others. My phone buzzes in my back pocket—Dad flashing across the screen.
I don’t answer.
I step outside instead, the night air curling sharp against my skin.
Above me, the sky is a dark smear of stars. Wind moves through the trees, and for a second—just one—I think I can pretend that my dad actually gives a damn about where I’ve been.
But the quiet won’t let me.
The night feels too much like a certain night between us that I always try to forget.
The one I never talk about.
Don’t think about it, Cole.
Don’t fucking think about it.
I climb into my car, the door shutting with a heavy click. The engine hums beneath my hand as I shift into drive. I’m finally heading home—but only because Emily will be there in a few days. That’s the only part that feels solid. The only thing I trust to keep me moving.
I ease out of the retreat parking lot and turn onto the highway.
The road is empty, quiet. For a while, I let myself think about the future. About the gallery spaces I’ve been circling in Ohio and West Virginia. The commissions I’ve lined up. The possibility of a place of my own.
Piece by piece, it’s all falling into place.
And then—
Honk! Honk! Honkkkkk!
The truck behind me blares its horn. A man shouts something from a rolled-down window, but I don’t hear it.
Because I can’t move.
I’m frozen at the green light, foot locked against the brake, pulse thudding behind my eyes.
“Come on, man!”
“Move!”
“Let’s go!”
I try to will myself to push on the gas, but it’s no use. Whenever this happens, I just have to wait it out—to let it pass.
My grip tightens on the wheel as the flashbacks start.
A blood-splattered windshield.
Shards of glass embedded in my arms.
The stink of warm beer.
Rain.
So much fucking rain.
I can still feel it. Still see the red and blue lights bouncing across the road. The EMTs. My dad’s voice screaming my name in the ER like he actually gave a shit.