Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
I know how he moves his body, but I’ve never seen the male part of him he keeps hidden in his pants. My fingers tingle to touch it.
So I do. I slide a hand between us, into his sweatpants, and grip his impossible hardness.
“Jag…” His name falls out of me like a prayer, like a confession, like everything I’ve buried for years.
His breath cuts off.
His eyes pop open.
In one violent sweep, sleep clears away, and clarity slams in.
Recognition.
Horror.
He rips himself away so viciously the air leaves my lungs. He hits the floor with a hard thud, scrambling backward. His hands fly to his waistband, yanking his sweats into place even though he’s not exposed.
His chest heaves, wild and panicked.
“Jag…” I crawl across the bed, reaching for him.
“No, no, no, no.” He shakes his head in a frenzy, scuffing his heels across the floor and slamming into the wall, his eyes blown wide with disbelief. Disgust. Terror. “What the hell—? What did I—?”
He covers his mouth like he’s going to be sick. Like he’s choking. Like he’d cut off an arm to erase the last thirty seconds.
And the worst part?
I’m still kneeling on the bed, lips swollen from his kiss, panties wet with my wanting, and all I can think is… I want him back on top of me.
For him, it’s a nightmare.
For me, it’s the truest, purest joy I’ve ever known.
“What did I do?” He drags both hands through his hair, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Oh, God, what did I do?”
“It’s a good thing, Jag.” I shift forward on the mattress, reaching for him. “You and me. Together. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“What? No!” With a horrified expression, he pushes to his knees and doubles over at the waist, a hand clamped to his mouth, trying to trap the sounds coming out of him. Dying animal sounds. “So fucking wrong. I wasn’t thinking. I thought I was dreaming.”
“Dreaming of me?” My heart skips.
“Fuck, no. Christ. Disgusting.”
My eyes burn. My ribs cinch tight, and something inside me cracks and crumbles, hollowing me out.
“I can’t…” He staggers to his feet, palms pressed to his eyelids. “Can’t do this.”
He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not from the moment he woke to the moment he turns and walks out.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I sit there, staring at nothing, my pulse thrashing in my ears. I don’t cry. I can’t. My body won’t pick a feeling. It’s all static, buzzing under my skin, numbing everything.
Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. He doesn’t come back.
Finally, I stand on legs that don’t feel like mine. I pull on jeans, a shirt, sneakers. If he’s not coming back, I’ll go find him.
I open the bedroom door.
The house is dim except for the blue TV glow in the living room. I follow the sounds of breathing, movement, and muffled moans. All wrong. All sour-tasting.
I step into the doorway, and there’s Jag.
On the couch.
With the two women.
My mind connects the shapes and shadows fast enough to understand what’s happening. The women are pressed against him, wrapped around him. One has her boobs in his face. The other straddles the back of his legs. Skin everywhere. Three naked bodies moving in wet, sloppy, panting rhythm.
This is worse than the dicks he sucked and the women he fucked for money. Worse than the men who took him from behind and left him crying alone in the dark after.
This is for his pleasure. He wants this. He chose these drugged-out women over me.
Because I’m disgusting.
He lifts his head, his gaze instantly finding mine. And his eyes…
They’re empty.
Dead.
Blank.
“Go to bed,” he says coldly, flatly. “Now.”
He doesn’t stop what he’s doing.
He doesn’t look disgusted.
He doesn’t look away.
He thrusts harder and watches me break with a hollow stare.
My chest caves in, and something rips open so wide inside me I know I’ll never be the same.
I turn away. My legs carry me toward the bedroom, but I can’t feel them. The air won’t go into my lungs. I choke on nothing and drown in everything.
The door shuts behind me, and I grab my backpack. I don’t think. I don’t look back. I just go.
The window screeches open. The dank air smacks my wet cheeks. I climb through and drop into the dirt below, my knees buckling.
I can’t see. My tears blur the whole world into smeared lights and colorless shapes. But I shove myself forward, across the yard, around a shed, and through a wire fence.
Sharp metal catches my shirt. Then my skin. Then deeper. It slices across my shoulders, deep and unforgiving. The barbs tear me open, dragging through flesh. I know it’ll scar. Many, many scars. But I don’t stop. I push through it, ripping myself free.
I’m crying too hard to feel anything.
Then I run. Through yards. Down alleys. Across streets where cars honk. My sobs wrench out of me, echoing loudly in the night, but I don’t stop. My legs keep moving until they give out. I crumple, get up again, keep going, going, going, beyond the reach of cameras.