Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I giggle, because the image of Trevor in a gimp mask is so absurd I can’t hold it in. “He’s not Christian Grey, Stells. He has a glass office and a $20,000 coffee machine. Good joe is his fetish.”
She doesn’t laugh. “I’m serious, though, because people have kinks. Billionaires have kinks squared.” She says this with the gravitas of someone who has definitely read every tabloid article about Jeffrey Epstein. “Just be careful, okay?”
I nod before giggling. “Of course. But where are you even getting this weird knowledge, anyway? Did you date a dungeon master and didn’t tell us about it?”
Stella flushes pink, then waves a hand. “God, no. I just went home last weekend and accidentally overheard my dad and Andie going at it. For, like, twenty minutes. With noises that should not come out of a human. I legit almost called the police, it was so disturbing.”
My eyes widen. “Are you traumatized?”
She gives a mock-solemn nod. “They were going at it like monkeys, Kay. It was genuinely horrible. I had to sleep with earplugs on for the rest of the trip.” She leans in, voice dropping: “Because my dad and Andie are definitely into something kinky. And now I’m haunted forever.”
I dissolve into laughter again, and she grabs my hand, squeezing hard.
“Anyways,” she says, “I am very proud of you. For losing your virginity before me, even if it was to your stepbrother.”
I gasp. “Stella, shut up! Are you seriously a virgin”
She throws her head back and cackles. “Yes, and you heard me! Kayleigh McEnroe, V-Card: gone. You are officially in the club.”
I look at her, open-mouthed. “But wait, don’t try to duck, girlfriend. You’re still—?”
She grins. “Last woman standing, baby. But I’m saving it for something special, you know?”
I shake my head, befuddled. “Yeah, but you’re the flirtiest, not to mention naughtiest, girl I know, and you’ve never—?”
She shrugs, looking oddly serene. “I’ve done everything else, just not home base. Not yet.” She picks up her cereal, takes a dramatic slurp, then says, “I’m thinking about starting a new bet though, to see who does double anal or double vaginal first. Doesn’t that sound yummy and so good? Oh my god, I can already think of a couple guys I’d be interested in, and you know I’d need more than one,” she winks.
I groan and throw a pillow at her again, but she ducks and giggles, flicking a soggy Pebble at my arm.
For a moment, I let myself believe that nothing will ever change: that we’ll always be here, in this shitty apartment, laughing about things we’re not supposed to. But I know it’s a lie. I can feel the future humming, big and dangerous, just outside the window.
When I pick up my bags once more, Stella blows me a kiss and tells me to text her if Trevor chains me to a cross.
I promise I will.
The hallway is sunlit and empty, dust swirling in the late-day light, and as I head for the door, I feel lighter than I have in weeks.
I’m not scared.
I’m not sorry.
And for the first time, I don’t care who knows.
24
THE “TALK”
Trevor
The light in the kitchen is growing dusky, almost holy. Late sun leaks through the bank of glass, hitting the white marble in a way that makes every surface hum with clarity. The room is warm, and it smells like sautéed onion and something sweet, basil maybe, and when I round the corner, I see Kayleigh at the stove, bent over a saucepan. She’s got her hair up in a makeshift knot, a few damp curls sticking to her neck, and she’s wearing nothing but a long, loose dress that’s almost a muumuu, except ten times sexier with a bare back.
My first thought is about how good she looks with her curves poured into that blue linen, the sash tied tight at her waist and the hem riding up on her thighs. My second thought is not so much a thought as a kind of electric hallucination, because I see it clear as a day: Kayleigh barefoot, belly distended with my baby inside, stirring pasta sauce with a serious look on her pretty features while a little blonde toddler bangs a wooden spoon against the cabinets nearby. For a second, I see myself in this future, coming home from work to find her just like this, the kitchen hot and bright, our children making a mess on the tile.
Our children.
I blink, hard, and try to kill the thought. What the fuck is going on? I’m a confirmed bachelor who swore I’d go to the grave single. Yet, the vision doesn’t die. I look at the pretty blonde again and my heart does this thing—contracts, then goes totally soft and loose. I stand like a fucking statue, letting the vision burn itself on my retinas. I’m not a family man. I don’t do babies, or diapers, or anything that requires me to be home at a set hour. I am not, under any circumstances, a person who should be having these kinds of fantasies. And yet the image lingers.