Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
She stays glued to me, taking me deeper, working me harder.
Perfect and soft and wet.
Until I'm there.
I hold her in place, groaning her name as I come.
My cock pulses as I spill into her mouth. Pleasure rocks through my pelvis. Consumes every one of my senses.
Everything is Danielle.
Her red lips. Her soft tongue. Her sweet groan.
Her gorgeous, curvy body.
Mine.
She sits on her heels. "Fuck." She wipes her mouth with her hand. "That was… fuck."
I'm not coherent enough to respond. I barely manage to offer my hand, help her to her feet, pull her into my lap.
She wraps her arms around me.
I hold her like I'm never going to let go.
For a minute, I believe it.
The world is a beautiful, perfect place.
Only bliss.
Connection.
Need.
Love even.
For a minute, I believe I'm a prince who's found a princess, and a possibility of happily ever after.
Chapter Thirty
Danielle
After I climb out of bed, wash, dress, pack, we eat in the kitchen. A quick meal he prepared. It's nothing fancy—box pasta, a jar of sauce, shrimp fried on the stove—but it does something to me, knowing he made it.
I'm still in a daze. I don't have much to say during dinner. As we clean, say goodbye to the space, head to the parking garage, to his shiny black Tesla.
He slips our suitcases into the trunk. Opens the passenger side door for me. Motions after you.
I slide inside.
He follows. Turns the car on (it barely hums). Taps the stereo. "Whatever you want to listen to."
"What if I like terrible pop music?"
"I've heard the music in your room."
My room. Because it's mine. I have my own space in his house. Not our space. Not a shared space. Mine.
It's the first time something has felt mine in a long time.
But I want an ours.
Because I fucked him a few hours ago?
Or for some other, deeper, scarier reason?
Maybe all I need is our bed.
"What would you listen to?" I pull out my cell. Connect it to the Bluetooth. Try to decide what will set the mood.
"I don't drive often."
"On the way here?"
"Soft Cell."
"What did Liam say?" I ask. "New wave. Like that song." Shit. What's it called? I hum the melody of the song Liam mentioned.
Adam nods. "Tainted Love."
Yes, that's it. A fitting song? Or just a song? I type it into Spotify. Find a new wave playlist. Go straight to Tainted Love.
An energetic electronic opening fills the car.
Then a singer with the perfect amount of passion.
It's a famous song. I've heard it on a thousand TV shows.
And it's…
It's so not Adam.
"Really?" I scroll through the playlist, trying to find songs I recognize. "This is so… alive."
"I'm not?"
"You're more restrained."
"He's restrained."
The song isn't really, but the performance is. "It's like someone compressed the emotional range."
He nods.
"What else?"
"The rest of the album."
Right. That's what he played on the way here. I let the song finish, then I play the album from the first song.
I can picture him in his car alone, letting the music fill the space, understanding the flat affection, wishing for the energy and passion.
"I like it," I say.
"I can tell."
My cheeks flush.
"You were listening to Joni Mitchell the other day."
I nod.
"Is that what you like?"
"Singer-songwriters." I slip my cell into my purse. "Mostly the music my mom played. Well, the singer-songwriters she played. She had eclectic taste. Played Joni Mitchell then the Black Eyed Peas." I used to hate Let's Get It Started because I'd heard it too many times. But now it feels like home. Like a home I can never see again. "How can she see the brilliance of Joni Mitchell and still like the Black Eyed Peas?"
"People are complicated."
They are. "I love every era of singer-songwriter, but the seventies are my favorite."
"Why?"
"There's a beautiful simplicity. I can't explain it."
"It suits you."
"Are you trying to make me blush?"
"If I was trying to make you blush, I'd say something dirtier."
Do it now. Let's pull over. Stay in that place where we understand each other.
His eyes flit to me, then they're back on the road. He must decide to take mercy on me, because he shifts the conversation away from sex. "What else?"
"When I'm not listening to singer-songwriters from the seventies? Mostly, singer-songwriters from the eighties. Or nineties. Aughts. There's a lot of good stuff."
"Do you have a favorite?"
"I have to choose between Carole King and Michelle Branch?"
"No."
"Okay. Then I won't. I love them all."
He nods, absorbing the information.
"When I'm home, I let Remy pick the music. Mostly, he plays video game soundtracks."
"Do you like them?"
"Sometimes. After hearing them so many times, the songs make me think of him. Of that feeling of Sunday afternoons. We'd drink too much coffee. He'd sit on the couch with his laptop. I'd stretch out on the floor with my latest set of photos."
"You edited naked photos next to your brother?"
"I didn't take anything explicit yet. It took me a while to build up to that. A few months of landscapes. Then portraits of strangers. Headshots. Careful crops."