Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“Chelsea was my friend,” I whisper into his chest. The words taste like copper and fear. “She was … we were …”
“You don’t have to tell me.” His deep timbre vibrates across my skin.
He says I don’t have to tell him, but I do. Maybe that’s what I need. To speak the truth so that the memories will stop haunting me. Stop eating me alive from the inside out.
“Marcus wasn’t there, either.” My voice sounds strange, distant. “That night. At the party. Chelsea wanted me to go with her, but I couldn’t. She told me I needed to stop being so afraid, stop letting my anxiety control me.” A sob catches in my throat. “I didn’t go with her, and I regret it every minute of every day now.”
The pressure on my chest becomes lighter the more I speak.
“Chelsea trusted me … trusted us.”
Lee doesn’t push when I trail off. He doesn’t demand the full story. Just holds me while I shake apart, his body between me and the rest of the world.
“I can’t,” I finally whisper. “I can’t tell you everything. Not yet.”
“Okay.” He brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, his touch careful. “Whenever you’re ready. Or never. It’s your story to tell.”
The simple acceptance in his voice breaks something in my chest. This isn’t how fake boyfriends act. This isn’t what we agreed to. This is too real, too raw, too much.
“Lee …”
“Shh.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Just breathe. Count with me.”
And even though I can’t tell him the rest—how her loss sent me into a spiral, how Marcus blamed me for her death, and how I spent six months in a psychiatric facility counting ceiling tiles—I let him hold me.
Let him pretend this is just part of our arrangement.
Let myself pretend I’m not falling in love with him.
“Forty-three tiles on the ceiling inside,” he says softly, giving me something concrete to focus on. “Plus twelve light fixtures. Twenty-seven steps to the bathroom. Nine sugar packets in the caddy at our table.”
I close my eyes, letting his voice wash over me. When did he start noticing these things? When did he start counting just to make me feel safe?
Then it’s both his voice and the soft heat of his breath on my cheek, then my neck, the slightest nibble of his teeth on my earlobe. I start to feel flush, and a warmth creeps over my cheeks. I exhale hard, the fog in my brain shifting, morphing into something I can actually handle, actually deal with. “What are you …?”
“Shhhh, Pantry Girl, I’m focusing.” His mouth traces across mine once, twice, three times, then he cups the back of my neck and kisses me like he’s trying to consume my soul. It’s enough to draw me out of my head and into my body. I give in to the kiss and fall into the wet, warm sweep of his lips against mine.
My core tightens, and my skin catches fire as his fingers dig into the hair at the nape of my neck and pull tight. Oh god. How can I feel his touch deep inside me? I moan into his mouth, and he matches it, giving as much as he can and taking the same. I grip the fabric of his shirt, wishing we were alone and back in his bedroom instead of on this bench in front of the coffee shop. And then, as fast as it starts, it ends. He breaks the kiss, and I find myself gasping, needing his lips on mine because they’re the only form of oxygen available.
“Salem?” His voice is rough, and the way he says my name, with so much uncertainty … it’s like he’s asking me a question without asking it.
“Stop.” I squeeze his hand. “Just don’t … don’t say anything else that will complicate things further.” He exhales slowly, and I feel him nod. We both know we’re past complicated, past fake, past whatever boundaries we set two months ago. But acknowledging it will mean facing truths that neither of us are truly ready for.
“Kiss me again,” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask questions, only kisses me again, this time nibbling my bottom lip with his teeth until I’m clenching my thighs tightly, needing more, wanting everything.
How does he do this? Each touch short-circuits my brain, turning the anxiety and fear off, so all I can think about is the sensation of him against me. When he breaks away this time, he presses his forehead into mine, and we’re both panting softly.
He continues to hold me, his body curled protectively around mine, pretending this is normal. Pretending his touch doesn’t set my skin on fire even through the gloves. Pretending this is still just an arrangement. Behind us is the coffee shop, and I count the bricks around the windows to slow my racing heartbeat.