Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“Did you hate it?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
“No,” I admitted, surprising myself by being honest instead of being contrary just to be abrasive, like I was known to do. “I’m not crazy about this whole stillness part, though.”
“Shavasana.” The foreign word flowed easily off his tongue, pronounced in a way that sounded correct. Like he had a cache of other Sanskrit words and their corresponding yoga poses.
“You some kind of yogi?” I was suddenly hungry, ravenous for all the little tidbits about him. “Where did you learn this?”
Jasper stayed stock-still, his eyes closed, expression even, without so much as a crease between his brows. “Foster parent liked it, wasn’t an asshole, showed me books. I read them. Figured this was a better way to work through my shit than beating up a bunch of kids and landing myself in juvie.”
It was the most words I’d heard from him, the most insight I’d gotten into his past, who he was. He spoke without inflection, spitting facts without any emotion attached. I was greedy for more. To hear a hitch in his breath signaling to pain, to the core of him.
“Do you miss them?” I thrummed my fingers on the foam mat. “Your other foster parents?”
He opened his eyes then, turned to look at me, his gaze piercing yet empty at the same time. Appearing much older and more jaded than any kid our age should be.
“I don’t miss anyone,” he declared. “Because I know better than to get attached to people.”
I heard the ice in his tone and was perceptive enough to understand that that was an outlook honed from years of pain and rejection. My throat closed at the reality of the world. People like Jasper were really going through serious shit, and I complained about my life like it was a sport. Like it was a cornerstone of my personality I should be proud of. I had a mother who asked about my day and wanted to make me lunches. A father who wanted to throw a softball with me and didn’t want me dressing like a woman because he still saw me as his little girl.
My stomach churned with discomfort at what an asshole I’d been to them. Surely, this feeling was fleeting, and I was going to continue being an asshole to them, though I tried to cling on to it.
When Jasper pushed up from the mat, I made to do the same. Mimicking his body language was quickly becoming natural to me. Something that should’ve been disturbing yet felt alluring. I was so desperate to march to the beat of my own drum that I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was from it, not until I got the respite from making decisions through the simple act of following Jasper’s movements.
“No.” His voice was an octave deeper, more masculine, sending a flutter to my lower belly.
I rested on my elbows, watching him crunch through the grass in bare feet to the end of my mat.
My previously even heart rate accelerated to that of a galloping horse as I understood the expression on his face as he slowly descended to his knees.
His movements weren’t rushed, and I recognized the unspoken question in his eyes, the request for consent. I was not naïve, and I certainly wasn’t a virgin, so I understood when a boy was requesting sex. What I hadn’t experienced was a boy doing it so wordlessly, sensually and intensely that he had the aura of a man. Heat erupted in my core, a desire I had never experienced with any boy flooding through me. Jasper stayed there while I considered.
Not that there was anything to consider. My body was overcome with excitement and a kind of desire that was utterly foreign, adult and addictive.
I let my legs fall open as an invitation, my breath already coming in low, quick pants.
Jasper’s large hands confidently grasped my sweats, I instinctively lifted my hips as he rolled them off. It was jarring, exciting and vaguely terrifying that he exposed my naked lower half so quickly, without ceremony or so much as a kiss.
Jasper, as it turned out, had other plans. His lips settled between my legs long before he kissed me on the mouth. He sent my body wild with pleasure, eliciting a scream so loud from me that doves nesting in a nearby tree fluttered from the sky—earning me a lifelong term of endearment that never failed to make me think of this moment.
And that was where we started.
In a beautiful meadow.
How far we’d come.
How far we’d fall.
Two
It’s Called: Freefall — Paris Paloma
PRESENT DAY
Ifelt like shit the next morning on account of the lack of sleep. Not that I was a stranger to lack of sleep, but my mind had been shaken, a lot, by Jasper’s presence, my ensuing trip down memory lane, and the pain of where we’d both ended up. Where I’d ended up.