Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Are you still in touch with them?”
“All five of us get together twice a year, at the very least. Usually more often in smaller groups. And I see Gareth a few times per month.”
She touches a finger to her lower lip and I’d do anything to be that finger right now. “I have a theory. Want to hear it?”
“I’d love to.”
“Having friends is hard as you get older. The further away from a place you get, both time and distance, the more difficult it is to maintain the friendships you made there. Like high school and college.”
“I think that’s true.”
“My theory is, people that do manage to maintain those connections are fundamentally decent. At heart, I mean.” Her eyebrows quirk upward. “But you seem to be the exception.”
I laugh again, delighted. She managed to compliment and insult me all at once. “Here’s to being an exception then.” I take a long swig.
“You care about your friends though, don’t you?”
“I do, very much.”
“Then why do you act like such a—” She hesitates here, probably searching for a way to describe me without resorting to something so crass as monster piece of shit motherfucker. “An unpleasant jerk.”
Understatement of the year. I’m the king of the unpleasant jerks.
“Because I don’t like you.”
“Then why marry me?”
“Because I want you.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Her desperation starts to leak through. It thrills me, watching her struggle. I wonder if she’s enjoying herself, and I think she is. “You dislike me, how can you want me? You think I’m awful. That’s so painfully obvious, and I dislike you too. You want my family’s name, but there are other ways to get something like that, plenty of other girls you could trick into marrying you. Why me? Why do you keep saying you want me?”
“Here’s the difference between us,” I say softly, forcing her to lean closer. “In your world, you either love something or you don’t. In your mind, people can only want to fuck when they’re in love and if they’re not then they must keep their distance and enact all the chaste little social rituals you’ve been raised to venerate. Things are clear-cut and easy in that world. Black and white.” I rap my knuckles on the table and she flinches. “In my world, in the real world, you can hate someone with all your fucking guts and still need to fuck them so badly it makes you want to crush your own liver just to have a taste of their lips.”
“That’s how you feel about me?” she asks, mouth opening slightly, tongue touching her lower lip. “You hate me but you want me—my body—anyway.”
“I don’t know how I feel about you yet, filthy girl, but I do love the way your lips look when they’re pressed against that glass.”
She hesitates mid-sip and scowls. “So much for being on your best behavior.”
“You can put a tiger in a fancy suit, but it’s still a tiger.”
“You’re not a tiger. More like a very angry poodle.”
“Poodles were bred to be police dogs. They’re vicious little fuckers. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She rolls her eyes, but smiles.
Dinner comes. We eat, make small talk about our families, and keep things light. I let her relax a little bit. It’s all so mundane I could scream. When we’re done, after about an hour or so, she orders dessert: a piece of warm cake with a melted chocolate middle. When her fork cuts through, the molten center spills onto her plate. She eats half, offers me the rest, and shrugs when I decline. I watch her head to the ladies’ room and sit alone at the table, staring down at the half-finished dessert.
What the hell am I doing here?
She’s right to keep asking why I want this. Gareth says it’s a terrible idea. Hell, all the others say it’s probably going to get me killed, including Ford, and of everyone, he’s the most like I am when it comes to women.
And yet I still want this. I want her as my wife, locked away in my room, writhing on my bed. I want to show her a world she never imagined, one much darker, grittier, one much more painful and beautiful and pleasurable than the pretty, boring cage she’s currently trapped inside.
I want her name. I want her company. I want all of that.
But it’s also about her.
I’m fucking obsessed and it’s not healthy.
But screw healthy. Screw good behavior. This is the only chance I’ll get at having her, and I’m not going to pass it up. I keep saying I can create real memories for her, make her feel real emotions, and yet here I am looking at a bland cake in a cookie-cutter restaurant that’s so exceedingly average if it disappeared tomorrow, the world wouldn’t even notice.
I get up and head to the back hall.