Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
A moment passes. Processing my words. Staring back at me.
Hard.
Then he twists off the faucet and comes at me.
I back away. My heels hit the restroom door.
His face stops in front of mine, lips curled with agitation.
I wait for him to shove me out of the way and finally see himself out of this restroom and out of my life for good.
Instead, he reaches for the door—and locks it.
18
ANTHONY
Heart slamming against my chest.
Fingertips prickling with anticipation.
What am I doing?
“Uh … why’d you just … lock the door …?” he asks me.
I don’t have an answer. I just didn’t want him to leave, I think.
And I don’t want to leave, either.
“Anthony?”
I swallow hard. I can barely look into his eyes. “Can we … Can we just …”
“Yeah?”
“Can we start where we … where we left off the other night?”
“In here? Are you nuts? Everything’s covered in herpes.”
“Nah,” I tell his chest. “They’re actually … m-meticulous about hygiene. I think. They clean in here every hour, the staff.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me, this is a step up from the motel room I’m in.”
“Are you sure we’re alone?”
“Yes, there’s no one else in here. Please. Just shut up and …” I finally look him in the eyes. “Do I still got your permission?”
He swallows. Hard.
I fully expect him to reject me. To push me away. To be done with this tug-of-war I keep playing with him.
If I was him, I’d sure as hell push me away.
I’d tell me to fuck off back to my small dirt town where all I’ll ever amount to is a sob story everyone tells like juicy gossip—the latest downfall of Anthony Myers, the latest failure, the alcoholic mess who didn’t climb up much higher in life than his dad’s failing pest control business. The apple didn’t only not roll far; it rotted the second it hit the ground.
I look down, realizing his unspoken answer. “It’s … It’s okay,” I mumble. “Sorry for draggin’ you through this. Wish I wasn’t such a mess, but … that’s all I am, all I’ll ever be. Hot mess express, right here, this guy, a ticket for one. Well, it’s your lucky day, I’m lettin’ you off these tracks.”
I reach to unlock the door.
He hand clasps my wrist the next second.
I look up at him, startled.
He smirks at me. “Make that a ticket for two.”
My eyes scrunch up. “Huh?”
“All aboard,” he says, almost sweetly, then grips the back of my head and brings my face to his.
The second our lips touch, I know everything is right. There is simply no other way to describe it. I feel complete. I feel invincible. All the anguish I put myself through is behind me in an instant.
His perfect lips were the answer.
Suddenly my hands find his body. I don’t know when or how it happened, but I’m grabbing him now, somehow pulling him and pushing him away at the same time, like some kind of magnetic force is at war between our bodies.
Then we’re stumbling away from the door, lips still locked, and my back crashes against the side of one of the stalls.
Our kissing intensifies. My fingers curl into his shirt as I feel my back flatten against the rough, unforgiving wall.
I grip him, turn him like a dance, and now it’s me shoving him against the outside of the stall. I can’t get enough of his mouth. I’m fucking breaking apart inside, like a beast is being unleashed with every smack, pucker, and twist of his lips on mine.
I bite his lip.
He grunts, eyes flapping open in surprise, and after a moment of worried confusion, he appears to accept it, as his hands slide under my shirt and drag over my bare skin underneath.
I raise my arms, and off the shirt goes. That catches a urinal’s motion detector, I guess, because it flushes like an applause, and then Bridger and I are diving back into each other’s faces.
He shoves at me, and backwards I go, until I feel the small of my back hit the counter. The faucet explodes again, blasting water behind me. My elbow must have hit it. Or Bridger’s.
Our kisses are turning vocal. I can’t contain my whimpers. His lips are fire against mine as he presses me to the sink. His hands go down my bare chest now, all the way, until they lock onto my hips—then lift me onto the counter.
I grunt with delight as his mouth drags down my chin, down my neck, and starts planting kisses all over my chest. All ten of my God-given fingers weave into his hair, the only thing I can grab, as his mouth slowly descends on my body. “Oh, fuck,” I groan, all of my whimpering turning into words now. “Fuck, yes, yes, fuck, shit, yeah, fuck …” I let out this intelligent stream of words like some kinda secret coded message of permission for Bridger to keep on doing whatever the hell he wants to me.