Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Not running into the piece of jewelry hurts.
Knowing why it’s not there hurts even fucking more.
Has me pulling her even closer.
Scents of orange tic-tacs and garlic tickle my nose creating a strange aroma that I don’t hate but am anxious to ask about
My mouth lowers to do just that as well as to beg for her back, plead with her to hear my unspoken case yet does neither. It simply hangs open while my eyes soak in every curve displayed in her low cut, red tank top hiding underneath her unbuttoned uniform shirt, and create new fantasies of what to do with her in this see-through white skirt I can now tell she doesn’t have any panties on under. I know I shouldn’t be focused on what she does to me physically. I know I should be figuring out how to spew vows of eternal love or some shit, but fucking hell does she look like dessert before breakfast.
“You look good, Pres.” The finger on the hand not holding hers steals a single stroke down her stomach. “You look really fucking good.”
“I know.”
The cockiness gets me groaning.
Moaning.
She pushes the wandering digit a little lower while purring, “And it looks even better underneath.”
Another growl grows in the back of my throat when I’m gifted a tiny touch of the freshly shaven treasure underneath. “Fuck…me…baby…”
Pres girlishly giggles, pushes away the hand, and inches up her falling glasses. “Nice to know you know approve.”
Fuck, I love her in glasses. They make her look smart. And sexy. And like some weird hot nerdy librarian you wanna find in porn.
I used to love taking them off her face when she’d fall asleep with them on.
Place them on my nightstand.
Return them to her when she’d wakeup from our random Sunday afternoon nap.
The aggressive memories push me to squeeze tighter, but it’s too tight.
It’s like I accidentally caused us to come back to reality…Our reality where touching is no longer an option.
Only wanting is.
Pres completely detaches herself from me yet thankfully, doesn’t flee. “What are you doing around here, Ry? Stalking me?”
“I prefer…politely waiting, if you must know. Better…branding.”
She can’t resist the urge to snicker. “Oh, is it?”
“Absolutely. You should know I’ve been looking into transferring these skills into profitable shit. Helping some of the ex-child actors around this place reinvent themselves as rescued children of slave labor.”
“That’s fucking terrible.”
“Eh, it could use a little tweaking.”
“A lot of fucking tweaking.”
The two of us share a round of snickers that somehow sway us closer together.
Allow my hands to possessively curl on her hips where they should’ve never left.
There’s no stopping the whispered confession that flies from my parted lips, “Fuck, I miss the hell out of you, Pres.”
She leans a little closer.
My heart races a little faster.
Her fingers give the edge of my jaw the faintest stroke on an airy, “I miss the hell out of you, too, Ry.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a single moment…just one single moment…life seems worth living again.
It makes fucking sense.
And the agonizing craving inside of me that never seems to die anymore, is actually soothed.
Heavy footsteps start to echo from somewhere in the hallway, which sends her scurrying like a mouse sneaking away from a distracted cat. “Later, Collins…”
“Later…”
Hearing her refer to me the same way I force everyone else to forces me to disappear into the bathroom in hopes of calming down.
Wouldn’t look good if I put another hole in the wall.
Parents are still pissy about paying for the one from last Thursday.
Fuck, I wanna smoke, but I guess a shit ton of cold water on my face will have to do until that damn bell rings.
Who knew that pretending not to give a fuck about someone takes a lot more energy than actually giving a fuck about them ever could?
--
Blowing out fake smoke rings in itself is oddly therapeutic. It’s a tactic I’m sure most therapists would frown their pretentious faces at yet Doc doesn’t.
I think he gets that it works for me.
Even if he’d never say it.
Doc stops writing to meet my stare. “That moment you had with Pres-”
“Please, don’t say her fucking name.” The strength and tone in my elocution is non-negotiable. Firm but filled with enough zeal that it would be easy to mistake her as a current love instead of a past one.
Fuck, I’m not even sure she is a past love, so much as the only love.
“Okay,” he respectfully agrees. “That moment you had with Blue Dream…”
“Yeah?”
“How did it feel?”
I pretend to ash the chalk substitute. “Like standing at the gates of Heaven. Light touching your toes. The warmth all right there for you to have. Shit that they make poems and books and rock songs about.”
“And then you were unsuspectingly robbed of that moment. That security. That high.”
Grunting in irritation is followed with clamping down on the candy.
“What’d you do as a result? How did you cope with having your favorite high taken?”