Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
"That was perfect," he vows. "So fucking perfect."
I smile, lips curving upward on his throat.
"I think I came as fast that time as the first time you ever touched me."
His laugh is tender, coated with his own exhaustion.
"I rode that high for weeks," he confesses. "I think I'll ride this high even longer."
Chapter 43
Zayne
"I can't believe I forgot that," Frankie says as he watches me open the Snickers bar.
"Forgot what?" I ask before lifting it to my mouth.
That first hit of chocolate melts on my tongue, and I moan at the rush of sugar I know is going to hit me in a few minutes.
"You like sweets after you come."
I roll my head on the headboard, staring at him.
"And you made that assumption when? The one time you made me come when we were younger?" I make sure to add a little levity to my voice.
I told him not to live in the past. The regret we both may feel has no place in our current relationship, despite knowing we'll get around to talking about it eventually.
"Do you really think that the bathroom door in your childhood bedroom made it soundproof?"
Heat rushes up my neck, and I know if it weren't for the bruising on my face, he could watch my cheeks turn pink with embarrassment.
"You never mentioned that you knew what I was doing in there."
"I couldn't talk about what you were doing to me," he says. "Did you think I could confront you after you went and jacked off in the bathroom after I came?"
I swallow a bite of the candy bar and continue to watch his face.
It doesn't take the man much to sink into those old memories, and I haven't seen one recollection that doesn't shade his eyes with the darkness of regret.
"Sounds to me like you owe me a lot of orgasms," I say with a shrug before taking another bite, smiling as I chew.
"I think I can manage that," he says, the darkness fading as he smiles. "You know what I like after an orgasm?"
"TV and silence?" I ask because what he always got after coming was space.
He was quick to zip up and walk out of my room if I didn't tell him we were watching something. There were times I'd head to the bathroom and take care of myself and find the room empty. Less often, I'd step back into the room and find him sitting on my bed or desk chair. Those were the days I knew he was struggling with his parents the most. He wanted to run and get away from me, but going home seemed worse to him. I still don't know how to feel about being the lesser of two evils for him.
"More orgasms," he says.
I'm grateful he isn't taking my bait. That conversation is much too heavy to have right after the best sex of my life.
"That can be arranged," I assure him. "Want to extend our stay?"
He shakes his head, but that question is just the first one in a series that I need answers to.
"No," he says without hesitation. "The first flight we can get on in the morning is the one I want. I want to get back home."
"I'll email Casper," I say. "I want to be home, too."
"Is the other one for me?" he asks, pointing to the second candy bar on the side table.
I look at it with longing, making him laugh, but I reach for it and hand it over.
Maybe if he's distracted with chocolate and peanuts, he's more likely to answer the questions that I have.
"What does that look like?" I ask the second he takes his first bite.
He chews, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "What?"
"Going home."
"A plane ride, I imagine. I don't think you're up for a road trip just yet."
I resist the urge to clench my back teeth in frustration, but the look on his face tells me that he's not trying to be obtuse.
"Not how we get there, I mean, being home... together."
"Logistically?" he asks, sounding no less confused.
"What will we tell people?"
"Do you think we have to explain ourselves?" he asks, taking another bite.
"I don't think we're going to be sequestered into a room with Hemlock demanding to know what our intentions are for each other," I say. "I'm asking how we handle it."
He thinks for a minute, and I refuse to get distracted by the way his tongue snakes out, seeking a tiny remnant of chocolate on his upper lip, no matter how the sight of it affects my body.
I look away, hating that the sound of his chuckle makes it very clear that he not only read me right but is also so aware of how he controls my reactions.
"I think that answers the question," he says, his voice low and full of promises.