Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Yeah. I will.” I part her hair into two neat sections, my hands surprisingly steady. “Celeste had gentle eyes and long blond hair. Whenever she sang, my skin pebbled in happy goosebumps. Her smile was her best feature. It went all the way to her soul, reflecting her bottomless kindness. That kindness made her even more beautiful. You look just like her. And she was… She was young, Dove. Only fifteen-years-old when she got pregnant with you.”
“What?” Her voice strangles. “How?”
And so I tell her.
The motion of braiding Dove’s hair used to calm me. But I’m no longer staring at the back of my little sister’s head.
A woman sits between my legs. The one and only woman I’ve been jerking it to for years.
My desire for her grows layers as I lift a section of hair to my nose and sniff.
Fuck. I need to focus.
I thread the silky blue strands, passing them over and under each other, my hands remembering what they’ve always known.
As I sink into the old rhythm, I come clean about her childhood.
“Adrian Crowe,” Dove says slowly as if testing the name on her tongue. “He’s my father.”
“Only in DNA.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I promised Celeste that I wouldn’t. She depended on me to keep you away from it, to keep you safe.”
I tell her about the vow I made to her mother and how it ruled every decision for the next twenty years. No police, no confessions, no telling anyone. I don’t frame it as sacrifice. I don’t soften it. I make sure she understands exactly how it unfolded and why I never broke the promise I made to Celeste.
“Why tell me now?” she asks numbly, not moving, barely breathing.
“Adrian Crowe is dead.”
“Oh.” Her hand spasms on my leg. “That’s where you’ve been for the past twelve days.”
“Yes.”
I finish the braids down her back, giving her time to absorb, dissect, and reshape her unforgivable childhood.
Any minute, she’ll spin around and throw a barrage of questions at me. I’m ready for it. Ready to tell her everything she wants to know. Then I’ll tell her about Wolf’s role in Crowe’s death.
At last, she twists to face me, her eyes glistening with tears that haven’t fallen. Her face doesn’t crumple. Her mouth doesn’t move. She just stares, her eyes darting between mine, perhaps looking at me through a new lens.
Her hands lift, and she places them on my face. Slowly, deliberately, her fingers trail around my eyes, down the bridge of my nose, scraping through the rough shadow along my jaw, and tracing the shape of my lips. Inspecting. Revising. Redrawing my features. Redrawing the man in front of her, adjusting angles, updating truths, and fitting the past to what’s sitting here now.
When she’s done, her chin trembles. Her eyes soften, and a small whimper escapes her.
Then she’s on me, hands in my hair, and mouth crashing into mine, lips parting, tongue chasing, demanding and spectacularly fierce.
She climbs onto my lap in a fluid motion, knees sliding around my hips, thighs straddling, crowding me back on the bed as if proximity is the answer. She kisses with her whole body, no restraint or uncertainty.
Just like Dove to make the first move and choose physical contact over words to express her feelings.
For a heartbeat, I’m stunned by it. Then I take control.
I meet her heat and ignite it, one hand firm at her waist, the other supporting her neck as I angle her head where I want it. I deepen the kiss, diving into her mouth and guiding the rhythm until urgency turns into wild abandon.
Our mouths fit together the way they were meant to, passionately locked, tongues tangled, teeth clashing, and lips feasting. I claim the pace, feed her what she needs, and my hungry little bird bites and whimpers and goes wild in my arms.
Her hands grab at my neck, my shoulders, holding on. I hold her right back, anchoring her where she is, where we are, letting the kiss say what neither of us can manage yet.
Everything led here. Every cardboard fort. Every drop of blood I washed down the drain. Every line of code and bargain made. All of it brought us to this moment—her trust, my hands, and the truth finally between us.
The need for air forces us to ease apart. Breathing hard, foreheads touching, we stare into each other’s eyes.
I want more. She does, too. It’s written all over her mouth, her hands, and the electricity sparking between us.
There’s still too much left unsaid.
My attention drops to her wrist. Two hair ties. Familiar. They used to live on my wrist.
I hook a finger under them and slide them free. Then I start tying off the ends of her braids, lifting one, then the other, where they drape over her chest.
As I twist the bands to secure them, the backs of my fingers brush against her nipples, teasing her piercings. I do it again, letting my knuckles graze the sensitive buds and watching her reaction.