Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“I want you,” he says, and he slides his big hands to my chest, gripping my breasts through the material of my shirt. “Fuck, do I want you.”
God, I want him too. Badly.
My breathing is ragged, and my body is already primed and ready for whatever action he can give. And I’m so close to giving in to the craving I have for him. So close to finally learning what it feels like to have his cock inside me.
But somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, I’m reminded of what he’s been through today. If there’s any place he should be right now, it’s back at the hospital with Summer.
Plus, I went off birth control right after the wedding to save money—figuring the next dick I saw would be at the age of eighty-five—I don’t have a condom, and little Norwegian boy is hardly my sexiest look.
“I want you too, Ben. But…”
“Ah, fuck.” He leans his forehead against mine again. “Trust me, I know.”
“Bookmark this so we can resume it another time?” I ask, offering a little smile as I do. “I swear, I’ll remember what page we’re on.”
“I won’t forget what page we’re on either.” Bennett gives me a soft, nearly delicate kiss. One that starts at my lips but doesn’t finish making me tingle until it reaches my toes.
Carefully, he helps me climb off his lap and out of the truck, and then tucks me into the driver’s seat of the Civic with the utmost care. We kiss again, this time in goodbye, and I remind him to call me if he and Summer need anything at all.
He’s still standing there when I drive away, and as I look at his tall, muscular frame in the rearview, I can’t help but think…
This might be the end of a long, horrible day and night, but it sure feels like the start of something else.
Norah
I take a right turn onto the gravel driveway that leads to Josie’s, and it’s not long before I’m parked and dragging my exhausted carcass into the house.
But as soon as I step through the door, I can tell something is off. The lights are still on in both the living room and the hallway, despite the late hour, and Josie’s bedroom door is visibly open at the end. I put my keys and phone down on the counter, realizing only then, of course, that I forgot to send her any more updates after I’d texted her that Summer had been safely transported to Burlington.
Hell, I haven’t even checked my phone in several hours. She must be worried sick.
“Josie? You awake?” I call out more quiet than loud to test the waters. Her answer comes from the living room.
“In here.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t update you or let you know I’d be this late,” I say as I walk out of the kitchen. “Summer is stable but admitted at Burlington. And God, Josie, it was so scar—” I stop midsentence when I find her on the sofa. But it’s not her presence that shocks me. It’s the manila envelope in her lap and the handwritten letter in her hands.
I hope the truth will set you free.
“I didn’t mean to,” she says in a quiet rush. “But I was trying to get some of these damn boxes unpacked so we can actually move around the house without tripping over shit, and I found this envelope and then I was just looking inside and I… Norah,” she whispers. “Is this…is this true?”
I don’t know what to say. All I know is that my heart is racing over the thought of my sister reading through the ugliness that’s inside that letter.
All I can manage is a nod. All of Alexis’s claims are backed up by other things—documents, a USB stick, and other forms of proof that came inside the envelope.
“This is awful.” She looks at me. Her eyes look soft, but it’s with sadness. A deep, disappointed sadness. “I always hoped that you got to see a different side of our mother. I always hoped that she was good to you. But this…”
She doesn’t even have to say it. In her eyes, this proves that Eleanor is Eleanor.
The corners of my mouth quiver as my lips slip down into a frown.
“She said you were always kind to her,” Josie comments, nodding down toward the letter. “Was she a friend of yours?”
“No, not really.” I shake my head. “To me, she was just a young girl from one of the many charities that Eleanor went to galas and events for. She had been in and out of foster care most of her life and had dealt with a lot of abusive situations throughout her childhood. I guess you could say our mother was mentoring her, and I got to know her a little because she worked for Thomas.”