Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
At this point, I have to do it.
I have to pull him even closer.
I have to pull him over my body and have him settle into the cradle of my thighs, right where my sore pussy is that he so tenderly massaged with that hot towel and wrap my thighs around his strong hips.
So I do that.
I pull on the collar of his shirt and make him come over me. When he’s exactly where I want, I arch my back under him and line my core up with where I know his dick is. “Are we done discussing how your dick’s a beast and my pussy is a beauty that he kidnapped and then violated in his library that contains like thousands of books?” Then it occurs to me. “Which your room has, by the way. Oh my God, we’re like the beauty and the beast!”
His lips twitch. “First, not God, me. And second, I don’t think that’s what Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve had in mind when he came up with Beauty and the Beast.”
I frown. “Who is that?”
“A French novelist,” he tells me, framing my face with one hand and taking a drag of his cigarette with the other. Letting the smoke out away from me, he finishes, “Who wrote Beauty and the Beast, the original version, back in 1740.”
I blink up at him for a few seconds. “It’s not Disney that came up with Beauty and the Beast?”
He stares at me unblinking for a second. “No, Dora. It’s not Disney.”
I narrow my eyes at his condescension.
And he emits a very low chuckle.
God, I hate him.
I hate how much I love him. I hate how happy his chuckle makes me.
No, actually, I’m lying. I just love it.
“Anyway.” I wave all of this away. “That’s not the point.”
“I can’t wait to hear the point,” he quips as he takes another drag.
I roll my eyes. “The point is that I read the books you told me about.”
That gets his attention, and he stubs the cigarette in the snow and looks down at me. “You read the books.”
“Uh-huh. The Adventures of Rune.”
He keeps staring at me for a moment or two before asking, “How many pages?”
Damn it.
I squirm under him. “Like twenty…”
His lips twitch again. “So basically one chapter.”
I push at his shoulder. “Hey, it’s a really long book and there are like, eight in the series. I bought them all but stacked together they looked even taller than me. So I kinda watched the movies.”
I did.
I bought the books after my play.
The very next day.
Because I was under the impression that I’d never get to be with him again. That that night was goodbye and we’d go back to being strangers like we essentially had been this past year. And God, I was so heartbroken about it. So sad and miserable and so fucking devastated. So I went out and bought those books that he was talking about, that he could not stop talking about, all determined to get to know the world he loves so much.
Thank God there were movies, though.
Which were really, really good, actually. I can see why he loves these books.
Which is why we’re having this conversation in the first place.
He pulls a face. “Movies are shit.”
I roll my eyes again. Of course he’d think that. Books are always better than movies, but since I hate reading, movies are my only choice.
In any case, I stick with the point. “So anyway, I got to talking to one of the girls in my drama class. And she really loves those books too and she said they inspired her to pursue her career path today. You know, acting. But get this”—I play with the collar of his shirt under his coat, looking at his throat—“her family wasn’t all that into it. They’re all lawyers and doctors and stuff, you know? And she’s the first, uh, actor. Or any arts person for that matter. And she told me it was scary, telling them about her interests and that this is what she wants to pursue. Which, as I said, is completely different from everything she’s ever known. So”—I clear my throat again—“yeah, she did it and she’s really happy today. Isn’t that amazing?”
I kinda think I didn’t really think it through.
In my head, this story sounded very convincing and believable. Pair that with my acting skills—because there isn’t a friend, and therefore, I had no conversation with anyone—and this would’ve been a home run.
I don’t think it was.
I think it sounded very long-winded and phony, and I don’t think my point was all that obvious. Which could be my only saving grace here.
“You think I’m not pursuing a different career path,” he begins, dashing my hopes immediately. “Something to do with books because my whole family is in soccer and so I’m pressured into it.”