Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Oh fuck.
Fuck me.
He’s suited up in the most flattering, flawless tuxedo that showcases his lithe, fit body. His hair is styled in his gorgeous Prince Charming look and his eyes are so bright, I’m positively drowning in their depths.
Sometimes I look at him and think I’m floating in an alternate reality. Sometimes, he whispers he loves me before he falls asleep in my arms, and I spend the entire night watching his face just to make sure it’s true.
He’s real.
We are real.
In what world did someone like me end up with someone like him?
No fucking clue, but I’ll take it. All day. Any day.
There's no way in fuck I’ll ever let him go. Not after our lives have become so intertwined that I can’t breathe properly unless he’s beside me.
It’s why the past week was fucking torture. I graduated this summer and had to go back to the States for my new role in the Bratva.
As much as I wanted to delay it, Jeremy has been waiting too long for me, and I can’t just leave my bro behind.
But I was rethinking the whole fucking thing the first night I slept without my lotus flower hugging me. The second night, I nearly spiraled into that black hole lurking in my mind and went back to smoking.
So yeah, I quit smoking a year and a half ago since I refuse the very notion of causing my Bran any form of health hazard namely the stupid second-hand smoke. Besides, he helped me all the way through it.
Just kidding. When it got a bit too much and I craved a smoke, he became his pragmatic stern self and announced a ban: either I touch him or a cigarette.
I quit within the week, thank you very fucking much.
My recent trip to the States felt like a redo of that time. No, it was much worse since I couldn’t even see him. We spoke on the phone for hours, despite the time difference, and he didn’t hang up until I actually drifted off to sleep.
I don’t want to ever, and I mean ever, get used to the feeling of sleeping in an empty bed. I prefer the bed where he pulls my head against his chest and strokes my hair until I fall asleep. A bed where I can hug him from behind and kiss his nape as we drift off.
This past week's experience is just not happening anymore.
Bran couldn’t come with me because of this award ceremony he was attending for winning some important art shit. Don’t ask me what it is. It has a stupid complicated title.
All I know is that my man is a fucking genius who broke the internet with his viral videos and the art people’s souls with his work.
It started as a joke when I once filmed him so concentrated on work while he was wearing just shorts and painting me. People went crazy about that, especially after they saw the final result. Since then, I’ve been taking sneaky videos of him all the time. And he’s gotten so many fucking deals because of that.
And awards. Many of those, too. He’s now as well-known in the art community as his psycho brother. Which should’ve been the case from the beginning, just saying.
I know Bran doesn’t like attention, but there’s no one in the whole fucking world who deserves it more than him. He’s so dedicated, disciplined, and a ridiculous perfectionist.
He deserved that solo exhibition he had two months ago more than anyone. It was a smashing success and the best I’ve seen.
Not that I’ve seen that many—only the ones he and his mom participate in. Sometimes he drags me to Lan’s exhibitions and I go just to talk shit about that psycho. Anyway, this one was special, and not only because it was his first solo. Most of his paintings were of me and my tattoos, but the center painting, the one that I begged Dad to spend over a million pounds from my trust fund on just so I could have it for myself forever, is my favorite.
I still have it as my lock screen.
It’s the one painting he couldn’t finish all those years ago.
The one where I’m standing and he’s leaning against my shoulder. He finally managed to draw his own face, and this time, he’s fucking smiling.
Never giving that painting up. Will probably have to put a request in my will to bury it with me so that when I meet Satan, I can tell him all about my lotus flower.
Speaking of whom, he abandons his company of hotshot art people who either love me for the way he depicts me or can’t stand my rowdy, brutally honest, beautiful self.
As Bran walks toward me, I’m once again hit with that inability to believe he’s with me. My heart is so full of him, it’s about to burst. I missed him so fucking much, I have to stop myself from kissing him, because it definitely wouldn’t stop there.