Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
The first time I wanted to wrap my arms around him after I gave him that first hand job.
The same after I sucked him off the first time.
There were so many lines that I could spend a lifetime trying to count them.
Each one left me feeling used and heartbroken.
Promises I made to myself long ago resurface, urging me to take a step back, to draw my own line and make him vow not to cross it.
I can't, however. I'd be foolish to even think that I could push pause on what's happening, much less stop it altogether.
I know where it leads. I know how hurt I'll be. But the kid who sobbed into his pillow nearly every time we hung out as teens needs these moments to heal, despite the new pain this will cause.
"Hmm?" he prods, and my brain glitches.
I have no idea what he's talking about, and I feel more than a little ridiculous when I reach for him, a wordless attempt to beg him not to stop.
He looks down at my grip on his arm, but instead of his eyes meeting mine again with anger or irritation, he looks a little sad, as if he might be aware of the struggles I faced then and the pain he might've caused me.
But I know better than to let my mind drift to those sorts of thoughts. He may be different now, but he's not the type to admit when he should've acted differently. Not many people are. They'd prefer to just move on with behavior changes rather than look back and admit things should've been different.
"Did I sound like I was in pain?" he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I don't miss how long it takes to reach his eyes, but eventually I see the same playfulness in them that I hear in his tone.
I dip my head twice, my teeth scraping over my bottom lip, and I almost groan with need at the way his eyes drop to my lips, a certain kind of need showcased on his face. It seems like the very same ache of expectation that is threatening to take over every instinct I possess.
"Maybe you have something that will help heal me," he says, reaching for the hem of my t-shirt.
When he said he was getting a shower and some sleep, I wanted to argue that it was the middle of the afternoon, but we had a late night last night and barely had a chance to sleep today. Not that I could've gone to sleep with the memories of the way he watched me in my bedroom after my shower earlier.
Before I can answer, he pulls my shirt over my head, letting it fall from his hand to the floor at our feet.
I'm a questions guy. I ask a million questions so I can enter a situation with as much knowledge as possible, making educated decisions to achieve the outcome I want. But before I can open my mouth to ask him exactly what his expectations are, he presses his lips to mine.
Kissing was never on the table all those years ago. Hell, he saw red and had a look of violence in his eyes when I went for a hug. I could never be brave enough to get my face that close to his.
This is the second time he’s been the one to lean in and press his mouth to mine.
I stand still, lips moving against his, parting when he urges his tongue past them. Fire shoots up my spine, my brain going offline in the best way possible.
When his warm, strong arm reaches behind me, fingers pressing against my lower spine, urging me forward, it feels as if there's nothing but green lights going forward.
I step even closer to him, my left arm going around his waist, my right hand reaching up and pressing the palm to his chest. I can't tell whose heart is racing more, but the strong beat of his heart under my hand reminds me just how real all of this is. It's grounding in a way that makes all of the fear I felt when he approached fade away.
I'm not saying that he won't have boundaries, that there won't be a line we reach that he can't cross, but I don't think it will be met with the same aggression and hatred that it did before. Not that if things did go that way, reminding him that he's the one who started all this would matter.
I pull in a deep breath, releasing it on a sigh when he pulls his head back, mouth immediately finding my neck. The nip of his teeth against delicate skin makes me groan, my hand at his back flexing and drawing him in closer.
Our cocks touch, separated by only two thin layers of fabric, but as much as I want to, I can't be the one to reach for him. History keeps me from responding the way I really want to in an effort to protect myself. I hate him a little for our past being able to keep me from living only in this moment, doing what feels right and natural, but you can only burn yourself so many times before you stop reaching for the fire.