Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
We take a bubble bath in a tub the size of a small pool, where we talk about our favorite books, people, ideas. Afterward, Brooks puts on Adele, and we have sex that I can only describe as intense on the rug in front of the fire. Sweaty, slow, our eyes locked the whole time.
Sex in front of the fire is a cliché for a reason. And that reason is: it’s the fucking best.
At night, Brooks tugs me against him, my back to his front, and I drift off curled inside the heat of his body. We sleep long and late.
In the morning, he kisses my neck and makes thorough, quiet love to me. I’m terrified to use those words—make love—but even I know what we do is more than just sex. We confided in each other, and that’s created this . . . connection between us, I guess. This understanding that only gets deeper and more meaningful every time we get naked together.
By the time Monday rolls around, I’m still sore enough to feel it with every step. And I still want Brooks again. And again. He finally stops me on my third ask of the day while we’re rinsing off in the shower before we pack up and leave.
“Please?” I rise up on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his chin.
“We have to stop at some point, sweetheart. I’m worried we’ll do real damage to your body at this point.”
As much as I appreciate his concern, my heart still falls. “Fine.”
He lifts the sprayer off the wall and gives me a thorough rinse. The water is hot enough to sting. I love it.
I love everything about this weekend, and that’s exactly why I want one last go with Brooks. I don’t want our secret little trip to end, because what if the sex ends too? We’ve talked about everything but what happens next.
What does Brooks make of our connection? Does it mean as much to him as it does to me? Or is sex like this good for him, but not good enough to make him want to stick around?
He did make that weird comment about me having to get on birth control. He almost said it like he wanted to screw around without a condom, which he would never do unless he knew I was safe. I wouldn’t be safe for a bit until I could figure something out. Which would imply he did indeed want to do this again back home.
He’s scared of losing George. I get that. But now I’m scared of losing Brooks, and I don’t know what to do. What to say.
Part of me cringes at the idea of being that girl. The one who not only catches feelings after having sex, but also says shit like I need to know where this is going. My stomach literally hurts when I think about asking Brooks how he feels about me. If he’d like to keep doing whatever we’re doing.
But it also hurts when I think about staying trapped inside the cool-girl box. Cool girls have no expectations. No needs. Living like that is suffocating. One of the many reasons why being with Brooks feels like a breath of fresh air—now that I’m finally giving myself room to move around, make mistakes, make myself heard, I feel like I can finally fill my lungs.
I get dressed for the first time since Saturday morning. As I button up my jeans, I realize they’re noticeably looser.
My heart turns over. Probably a combination of the constant sex and my nonexistent appetite.
I’ve never lost my appetite over a guy before. I love food. So much so that I’ve made a career out of it. But when I glance up at Brooks—he’s tugging a sweater over his head, stomach caving as he guides it down over his torso—my insides dissolve into butterflies.
My hunger for him has obliterated my literal hunger for anything else.
Brooks is courteous as ever at breakfast and during checkout. I don’t feel like anything’s changed between us.
In the car, we put on a podcast. My request, not his. I need time to figure out what I’m going to say. If I’m going to say anything at all.
I mean, what’s wrong with just seeing where this goes? Letting it play out organically?
Everything.
For starters, I’m worried about Brooks. I glance at him in the driver’s seat, appreciating just how much of a snack he is in his Persol sunglasses and jeans. Thick hair neatly parted to the side. He looks relaxed with one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over his knee, long fingers spread. But I know better. He’s grappling with some intense stuff.
He’s not okay, and neither am I.
I also know in my heart of hearts I want more than just a weekend fling with Brooks.