Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 175455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 877(@200wpm)___ 702(@250wpm)___ 585(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 175455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 877(@200wpm)___ 702(@250wpm)___ 585(@300wpm)
I was testing his response, and I’m not shocked to find he likes that phrase. I swallow. “I imagine your ideal partner would have to find some pleasure in being your plaything.”
Cocking his head, he asks, “Are you volunteering?”
I shake my head quickly to disabuse him of that notion. “No. We’re just talking, that’s all. I’m tryin’ to get a read on what you’re interested in, what your specific needs are to see if maybe…”
“Have I said yes to anything that’s a dealbreaker for you yet?”
The faint trace of hope evident in his asking that strikes a sympathetic chord and gives me pause. “I don’t think so, but I haven’t even experienced normal sex yet, so I can’t be sure. The fact that I’m here right now after everything you’ve done to me makes me think I might be able to handle it. It doesn’t start with sex, though.” I lift my eyebrows, eyeing him sternly. “It starts with building trust and a relationship. Like any relationship. I know you don’t have many of those, but normally before having sex, people connect with one another as human beings, build up their emotional attachment, and sex happens afterward.”
His nose wrinkles up with exaggerated disinterest. “That’s not really my style.”
“Well, it is mine,” I inform him. “Trust is central to any solid relationship, but especially one like this. If I’m going to trust someone with unfettered access to my body, I have to be able to trust them with everything else first. Let’s get to know each other more and see if it’s something we’re even interested in pursuing.”
“But knowing what you know already, you might be?” he asks.
I don’t know if my acceptance matters, but these flecks of vulnerability make me think it does, so I nod my head. “Maybe.”
Nodding his head, he says, “Interesting,” as if he’s conducting his own study. “I guess I can be patient.”
“How magnanimous of you,” I offer, lightly.
He smiles down at me. “Isn’t it?”
Chapter 17
Most weeks, I don’t dread going to church. It’s not really my thing, but Grace is in her element there, and the church we go to is a good one. They do lots of community outreach and offer plenty of volunteer opportunities. All that stuff fills Grace’s cup, and when you love someone, sometimes you do things for them, to make them happy, to fill them up. It’s not like I dislike it, and I wouldn’t be doing anything better with my time anyway.
This week is different, though. This week Grace is dodging my gaze, and when I daydream while the pastor talks, my mind drifts to last night. To Carter Mahoney’s couch, pinned beneath his strong body, his mouth claiming mine, his hand pushed down inside my jeans. After all my coaching to get him out of a dysfunctional place, he persuaded me that just because we weren’t ready for sex yet didn’t mean we couldn’t fool around. He told me he wanted to make me come again, told me he owed me one since the first time I got him off, he hadn’t returned the favor.
So as my pastor talks about sin and temptation, memories flash through my mind of moaning Carter’s name, my eyes closed, my body writhing while his fingers sent me somewhere magical.
Sitting in a church pew with those memories running through my head, I’m flushed and uncomfortable. I smooth a wrinkle out of my skirt, trying to expel those thoughts at least until I leave this building.
When the service is over, I pull out my phone to check it. There’s a message from Carter, asking what I’m up to this afternoon.
“Stuck at church,” I tell him. “We have a youth group meeting today, we have a new project and we’re trying to organize it quickly so we can get funds together.”
“For what?”
“This lady and her baby are staying with the pastor and his wife because there was a fire at their place. It destroyed all their stuff and they have nowhere to live, so we’re going to raise some funds to help her get back on her feet.”
“Aren’t you an angel,” he replies.
I can practically hear the sarcasm, even in text. “Not in the least,” I reply. “You don’t have to be an angel to help people.”
“When is it over? How about we meet for lunch and you can tell me all about it.”
I’m so used to telling him no, I have my thumbs poised over the keypad, prepared to make an excuse before I realize I don’t have one, and I don’t need to make one up. If I’m going to give the guy a chance, lunch is a good starting place.
“All right,” I send back instead.
“Zoey.”
The voice in front of me pulls me out of my text conversation. I flush, seeing the friendly, smiling face of the youth pastor, James. I slip my phone back into my purse and flash him a smile. “Good morning, pastor.”