Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I hesitate, then say, “It’s been a long time since I let anyone get this close.”
She looks up, searching my face for the punchline, but I’m not joking.
“Really?”
I nod, and the words cost me. “I mean it. I don’t do this. Not with anyone. Not for years.”
She is quiet, then asks, “Why me?”
I want to give her a line, a piece of poetry, but all I have is the truth. “You make me want to be a better man,” I say, and it’s so fucking corny that we both laugh.
Her hands roam my chest, fingers tracing the tattoo at my collarbone.
She says, “So, are you going to write about us now?”
I grin. “Yeah, definitely.”
She smacks my arm, but she’s smiling, proud.
“What’s the story?” she asks.
I shift, pulling her on top of me, so we’re nose to nose.
“Stepfather and his naughty stepdaughter,” I say, voice low. “They’re both broken, both running, but when they finally give in to their attraction, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
She blushes, then giggles. “Does it have a happy ending?”
I let my hands roam her body, not for sex, but to prove she’s real, she’s mine.
“It ends with the girl realizing she was never broken at all,” I say. “She just needed someone to see her, and it happened to be the older man in her life.”
Kat looks at me, really looks, and for the first time since we met, I let her see everything—no lies, no games.
She kisses me, sweet and slow, then settles against my chest. We don’t speak for a while, because there’s nothing left to say. It’s all here, in the hush of the morning, the slow throb of our heartbeats in sync.
I close my eyes, holding her tight, and let myself believe in the possibility of a new story—a better one, with her at the center.
And when she finally falls asleep again, wrapped up in my arms, I know I’ll never let her go.
10
CHAPTER TEN – MOUNTING SUSPICIONS
Kat
I’m learning that every storm sounds different, and this one is a beautiful symphony. There’s the rat-a-tat of rain on the roof, steady as a metronome. There’s the glug-glug of gutters trying valiantly to keep up with the pounding rain. And then there’s the trees, shuddering and lashing the windows with their brittle claws, not caring if they break themselves or everything else in the process. If I had to guess, I’d say this is what the end of the world sounds like—minus the warm wool blanket I’m wrapped in, and the bare, dark-haired man spooning me from behind.
The fire is almost too much. We started it this morning, a few minutes after I realized the temperature in the great room was colder than an ice box. Talon had to go out in his boxers and a hoodie to pull more logs from the covered pile, which led to about ten minutes of cursing and shouting as a branch snapped and dumped a quarter-ton of snow right onto his head. I watched from the window, eating a clementine and pretending I wasn’t dying over how he looked—shivering, shirtless, cock hard as a tree branch, flakes clinging to the black scruff on his jaw.
Now the logs hiss and crackle, the heat pulsing across my bare calves. I’m nude under the blanket, except for the way Talon’s got his arms slung around me and one big hand splayed on my stomach, thumb absently tracing the groove of my hipbone. We did it right here, on the rug in front of the fireplace, because if you’re going to do post-virginity sex you might as well go full romance novel. There are still pillows scattered everywhere, and if I look over my shoulder, I can see the faint print of my own ass on the braided rug. I’m a work of art.
“You think we should check the generator?” I say, mostly to fill the silence, but also because I’m actually a little worried about freezing to death when the propane runs out.
Talon nuzzles my shoulder, then gives a sleepy, bone-deep sigh. “It’s fine. This place was built by conspiracy theorists. I could live off-grid for a decade, easy.”
“Your tinned beans say otherwise,” I tease. “Pretty sure if you lose power, you’ll lose your will to live.”
He grins into my neck, then bites down lightly. “You say that like you’re not the same. How many pop-tarts have you eaten since you got here?”
“Only about twenty. That you know of.” I smile into the fire, then wiggle back against him until our bodies are slotted together like puzzle pieces. “God, I love this blanket,” I say. “It’s like being inside a sheep, but in a nice way.”
He laughs, and I feel the vibrations all through my ribs. “You’re a real poet, Kitty Kat.”
I’m trying to memorize every detail, because I know how fragile this is. Last night, after we—after I—let him all the way in, I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. Not because it hurt (it did, but not enough to explain the tears), but because it was real. It was a line I’d been guarding with my life, and I didn’t realize how much it meant until Talon claimed me. He just held me, didn’t even try to make it about him. He stroked my hair and told me about the first time he ever caught a fish, how it made him feel strong and old and somehow still innocent. That’s what it felt like with him: not the loss of something, but the start of something I didn’t have a word for.