Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
But not a girl named Mila. Not anymore.
“We’re gonna pretend you’re by yourself, enjoying your . . . special alone time. That’s right, sweet girl. I’m gonna watch, and you’re gonna play. Not over there. Come here. Bring that sweet pussy over my face.”
I come to with a start, the light brighter and a soft pillow under my head. It takes me a few moments to orient myself, the thrum of the plane echoing inside my aching hollowness. I struggle upright, reaching out to stop a cashmere-soft blanket falling to the floor, when Fin beats me to it. As he would, given he’s sitting next to rather than across from me.
“Did you say something?” The words come out accusingly as I glance up at him, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. Classy, I know.
His mouth tips, and he reaches out, tugging gently on a lock of my hair. From the corner of my eye, it seems to have turned springy from being squashed to my head.
“What’s wrong? Did I invade your dreams, beautiful?”
“No,” I answer far too quickly. I blink, pushing the wayward strands away. “You’ve moved.”
“I know.”
“Why?” Another accusation.
“You looked cold,” he says, with a look of benevolent patience. “I covered you up, and you reached for me. Maybe you were uncomfortable.”
“I’m not sure how. These seats are so comfy. I wondered earlier if this is what it must feel like being cradled in the hands of God.” I pat my hand against the backrest and plump the square pillow, as though to support my point.
“Maybe you find my arms preferable to the hands of the Almighty.”
The story checks out, thanks to the patch of drool on his chest. He must’ve changed while I was sleeping, as he’s no longer wearing the shorts and T-shirt he boarded in, but a pair of crisp, dark jeans and a pale-gray fine-knit sweater that looks so soft and makes his eyes look like rain clouds.
I don’t point that out, of course, as I stretch the sleep from my body and try not to enjoy how his eyes sweep over me.
“We’ll be descending soon,” he says, with a casual glance in the direction of the window.
“Really?” My hands drop to my sides, disappointment filling my chest. Stupid chest. “How long was I asleep?”
“Almost eight hours. Comfortable, see?” he says, kicking out his long legs in front of him.
He might be right, but I’m also worn out. I haven’t had a lot of sleep this week, every night and every afternoon siesta interrupted by touches, by kisses. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes during our slumber. It’s as though even our unconscious selves were reluctant to waste a moment. As though my body has been making up for lost time as well as stocking up for the future.
My future will be one of focus. Of dedication to my grandmother’s comfort and to my success.
God, I can’t wait to move out of Baba’s tired flat. It’ll be hideous being back there.
“I’d say that’s reason enough to keep in contact.”
“Sorry?” My brain connects the dots a beat too late.
“I’m a good place to land, Mila.”
“Fin,” I murmur sadly, my gaze sliding away. “Please don’t.” I can’t move on and keep him in my life. Cold turkey is the only way to go. The seat belt clunks as I loosen it, though he catches my wrist as I try to pass.
“I’ll say it again, Mila. This doesn’t have to be complicated. It could be just as good as it is right now.”
But I don’t trust myself, and I shouldn’t trust him. I know he wants me, but for how long? How quickly will his interest wane when he finds out I live like a trash rat? When he learns I eat my feelings and then skip meals, that I bite my fingernails down to the quick when I’m stressed, and that I have one-way conversations with the teenage girl who seems to reside in my head.
“No, Fin. It’s already too messy. We can’t. Not anymore.”
He nods, as though he finally understands. Or is finally giving up on the idea of us. Giving in to logic, I suppose. And that doesn’t make me feel glad. Which is absurd. Please let go of my wrist.
“Then I’m sorry, Mila.”
“Me too. But—”
“No, I’m sorry that you might not have any choice in the matter.”
My brow furrows as I begin to shake my head, but I abandon the action when I can’t make sense of what he means. His tone isn’t threatening, but there’s a finality to it. A hardness. Why would he say such a thing? I pull again. This time his fingers loosen.
“What is it? What do you mean?”
“That it might not be entirely in your control.” His words, not his tone, are what sound vaguely threatening. “Sit down.”
“I don’t want to.”