Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole all week,” I blurt out, finally getting a chance to apologize.
She curls her chin into her shoulder and bats her lashes at me. “It’s okay. I scare you, so you’re lashing out.”
She’s not wrong. But… “You don’t have to accept that behavior from me. You have every right to call me on my bullshit.”
She turns to face me fully, her eyes narrowed. “You sure about that?”
I nod once, thinking I’m ready for whatever she’s got. Fuck, I want it. Her insight, her truth, her story… her. Whatever I can get.
She licks her lips, like she’s deciding on what to say, which terrifies me because Riley doesn’t pre-plan what she’s going to say. She speaks off the cuff, always, sometimes just as surprised by the things that come out of her mouth as whoever she’s speaking to. But instead of berating me, she takes my hand and drags me out of the gym, into the hallway, where it’s quieter. All the kids are inside dancing and the chaperones overseeing, so it’s just the two of us as she tells me what she really thinks.
“You get one life.” She holds up a single, blue-tipped finger. “And you owe it to yourself to live it fully, not on autopilot the way you’ve been doing, or worse, fighting the joy you could experience.” She pins me with a look, clearly aware that that’s what I’ve been doing all week—fighting what’s right in front of me. Her. “Right now, the example you’re setting for Grace is that life isn’t worth living, it’s only worth surviving.”
I wasn’t ready.
For any of this. Her words that pierce me to the core, her body and my response to it, and most of all, her mind and the way it sees things I’d rather hide from the light. In her defense, she was letting me do that until I pushed her and basically demanded that she tell me.
I want to run. I want to rage. I want…
To kiss her.
That one wins out because it’s what I’ve been fighting the most.
I step in close, her back landing against the brick wall as a gasp escapes her parted lips. Some tiny piece of me wants her to tell me no. A much larger piece wants her to lift her chin and give in to this.
To let me in. To let me explore, not only her mouth but this thing I’m feeling, no matter how wrong it may be.
I cup her face in my hands, my nose mere inches away from hers. My grip is too rough but she doesn’t seem to mind. Actually, I think she arches into my touch. And then slowly, I press my lips to hers.
It’s not fireworks and shooting stars. It’s the welcome heat of a fireplace on a cold night. It’s the swoopy colors of the Northern Lights spread across the whole sky. It’s… home.
I move my mouth, and she responds in kind, letting me lead. Always letting me lead, like that’s all she deserves. But she deserves everything.
And so do I.
All the things I decided long ago weren’t for me. Not again, not anymore. Maybe I do deserve happiness even after loss? It feels like I do. Riley certainly feels like she belongs in my hands, against my body, sharing my breath as she gives me hers.
I slip my tongue past her lips, tasting her deeper, and feel her fingers curl against my chest, gripping my shirt in her fists. She wants me as much as I want her.
I’m not the only who’s been fighting what’s right in front of them. She’s been fighting this too. But whereas my battle has been selfish, denying myself in some misguided attempt at loyalty and propriety, Riley’s war has been on my behalf. She’s fought her own desires to give me time to come to terms with this, knowing that I needed to suffer through nights tossing and turning while I dreamt of her and agonize over every possible angle of the situation to make peace with it. Which I’ve done, and there’s only one conclusion…
She’s not Mary Poppins, but she’s magic, plain and simple. Because she’s brought me to life.
Need surges up inside me, and I grind my hips against her, the friction doing little to alleviate the deep desire to be inside her.
“Mr. Harrington!” an authoritative voice announces.
I come back to myself, time restarting in a loud, whooshing roar in my ears. Reluctantly, I pull back as Riley rushes to push me away, swiping her lips to fix the lipstick I didn’t realize she was wearing.
I turn to see a gray-haired woman in sensible pumps standing with her hands on her hips as she glares at me and Riley. “Mrs. Vanderlicker…” I clear my throat, “I mean, Vanderfielder.”
She harrumphs, not pleased with either my name slipup or what I’m doing. Honestly, I get it. The kids make fun of her name because she has a tendency to suck up to the dean, hence a play on bootlicker. And as for my behavior, Riley and I are making out like teenagers in the hallway of my daughter’s school, where anyone could see us. Neither are appropriate actions for chaperones.