Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Line?” he asks, closing the space until I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Then why do you keep coming back if I’m only giving you lines?”
I reach for his collar, fist it, and tug him toward me until our chests almost brush. “Because you leave notes in my books.”
“So this is your kink? Stationery or does it have to be in a book?” he teases, grin crooked and sinful.
“Don’t make it weird,” I warn, tightening my grip on his shirt.
“Oh, Little Bird,” he breathes against my mouth, “it was always weird.”
And then he kisses me. It’s soft at first, but not for long.
His hands slide to my waist, fingers digging into the fabric. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
We press together like we’re trying to escape our own skins.
Like there’s no world outside this old wooden shack.
He groans against my mouth when I tug his hair harder. The sound shoots straight through me.
And I feel it. All of it. The ache. The want. The overwhelming relief of finally having something that feels like mine.
After a few more moments, we pull apart—barely.
His forehead rests against mine. His breath is hot. His chest rises hard and fast against mine.
“Jesus.” He brushes his thumb against my lip. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“You like it,” I whisper, nudging my nose against his.
“That’s not the point,” he breathes, his eyes dropping to my mouth again like he’s fighting himself.
“Then what is?” I ask, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer and begging to be kissed again.
He hesitates long enough to make my pulse trip, and then his voice drops, raw and unguarded.
“No one’s ever wanted me like this before. Sure, I’ve had girls, but this—this is different.”
The words hit me like a punch, and all the air leaves my lungs. I pull back just enough to look at him. Really look at him.
His eyes are serious. Dark. A little afraid. And I realize he means it.
Not just physically. Not in the shallow, temporary way people want something pretty or dangerous.
He means no one’s ever chosen him. No one ever thought he was worth sneaking out for. Worth breaking rules for. Worth fighting for.
“I want you,” I whisper, lifting his chin with my hand so he has to hear it.
His brows furrow, his breath shaking. “You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
He swallows, the muscles in his throat working hard. “Why?” he asks, voice cracking open.
“Because you see me,” I say, letting my fingers slide down his jaw. “Because you talk to me like I’m not fragile or foolish. Because you don’t want me quiet or perfect or still.” My voice trembles, but I don’t stop. “Because when you kiss me, I feel like I matter.”
His hand flies to my face.
Urgent.
Rough.
Almost desperate.
“You do matter, Little Bird,” he growls. “To me. You have no idea how much.”
I lean in. He meets me halfway.
Our mouths crash together again. It’s harder this time, hungrier, like we’re trying to memorize the shape of something doomed. We know the clock is ticking. And the notes won’t be enough for much longer.
His hands slide under the hem of my hoodie, finding the bare skin of my waist. I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound.
I press closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
We move together like a storm. Crazy and relentless.
Fierce and breathless.
We are want and need.
Built-up passion simmering to explode.
It’s dangerous yet . . . perfect.
Then—suddenly—he pulls back. Just enough to break the kiss.
Why did he stop?
His forehead drops to mine, breath shaking. “We can’t,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Why?” I breathe, reaching up and sliding my fingers down the column of his throat.
“Because once I start wanting more with you”—his eyes close like the thought hurts—“I won’t be able to stop.”
I take his hand. Lift it. Place it flat against my racing heart.
“Then don’t stop.”
His eyes widen.
It looks like he has something more to say, but instead, he shakes his head and kisses me again.
Slower and deeper this time.
A kiss that says all the things he can’t say.
A kiss that says everything.
14
Lorenzo
I know the look on my mother’s face before she speaks.
It’s the one she used to wear when I was ten and coming home with bruised knuckles and a chipped tooth.
The look that says . . . You don’t have to tell me what you did. I already know.
But more importantly, at this very moment, it clearly states, You are not one of them. Know your place.
We’re in the staff kitchen. She’s elbow-deep in dough for tomorrow’s breakfast rolls, her hands moving with the kind of practiced calm only someone who’s lived an entire lifetime serving others can maintain.
The overhead light flickers as I brace for a lecture.
It’s coming…that much I know for sure.
If my mother is one thing it’s predictable with how she reacts when she thinks I’m fucking up.