Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I can’t let it go. Not yet.
“Do you think I should walk?” I ask, not looking at him. “At graduation. I mean, should I do it? Or would that just make everything worse?”
He’s not startled by the sudden shift in conversation. Then: “It’s your call, sweetheart. If you want to, I’ll be there. If you don’t, I’ll still be proud of you.”
I feel my chin go weak, my shoulders folding inward. I stare at the street below, trying to imagine my name called out, a crowd clapping, the eyes of a thousand strangers on me. The knot in my stomach gets tighter.
“I don’t want to,” I say, almost a whisper. “I want to be done. I want to leave it all behind.”
He nods, then lifts my chin with a finger, makes me look at him. “Then don’t,” he says. “You already did the hardest part. You survived.”
That breaks me. Not all at once, but in pieces. My mouth trembles; my eyes burn.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words bursting out before I can stop them. “Again, I’m so sorry for all of it. For the videos, for Jeannine, for—” I close my eyes. “For every single day I made your life harder. Since I was a teenager and didn’t even know! Since the day you met me.”
He tilts his head, searching my face, and then he takes my chin in both hands, holds me so close I can see the flecks of gray at the edge of his irises.
“You didn’t make my life harder,” he says. “You made it real. You made it worth living. I was a fucking ghost, MK, before you. You brought me back.”
He kisses me then, slow and deliberate, his thumbs brushing the tears off my cheeks. His mouth is soft but insistent, and the taste of him—cigarette smoke, coffee, maybe the ghost of lemon from my granita—makes me forget, for a second, that anything bad has ever happened. I kiss him back, slow at first, then faster, letting myself lean into his body, letting the shirt ride up my thighs as I press against him. I feel safe, and wild, and more myself than I’ve ever been.
He pulls back, just enough so we can see each other.
“I love you, Kent Robinson,” I say, voice shaky but true.
He smiles, and for once, it’s not a smirk or a mask or anything but pure, raw joy.
“I love you too, Mary Kate Ashton,” he says. “Always. In every city, every life. Even if you drive me completely insane.”
We laugh, together, the sound tangled with the street noise and the last, lingering notes of the bell.
The linen shirt slides off one shoulder as he pulls me closer, his hand slipping up under the hem to grip the soft skin at my waist. The city glows gold below us. For a moment, it’s just me and him and the whole world, breathing in sync.
He leans down and whispers in my ear: “I have something for you.”
My heart flips, nervous and greedy all at once.
“What is it?” I ask, half a smile on my lips.
He grins, wicked, and kisses my neck, slow and lingering. “A graduation present, even if you don’t walk. You’ve been so good to me, all year. Massaging my—” he pauses, leans in, “—testicular stone problem. But I’ve never repaid the favor. I think it’s my turn.”
I laugh, the sound half-nervous, half-thrilled. “You want to give me a massage?”
“I want to worship you,” he says, and the words go straight to my core.
I shiver, but not from cold. The shirt is suddenly tight over my nipples, the air cool on my skin. I look at him, and the hunger is back, bright as ever.
He picks me up, one arm behind my knees, the other around my shoulders, and carries me inside. I squeal, but not loud; the sound is more a gasp, a flutter in my throat. The door swings shut behind us, the city vanishing into a rectangle of blue beyond the glass. The room smells like fresh linens, wet marble, and a hint of sex from the last time we made love on this very bed.
He sets me down on the mattress, careful, almost reverent. The shirt rides up, exposing my thighs and the curve of my ass, and I let it. I want him to look. I want to be beautiful for him.
He kneels at the edge of the bed, takes both my feet in his hands, and starts with my calves. His hands are huge, the knuckles rough, but his touch is impossibly gentle. He kneads the muscle, working up to the backs of my knees, then higher, to my quads and the tops of my thighs. The linen bunches at my waist, the hem caught at my hips. His thumbs dig in, and every time he hits a knot, I gasp.