Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Leaving me alone.
I’m pissed off, but I take a beat to breathe, slowly calming myself. I’m exhausted, running ragged, but at least the room is sumptuous. Crisp, soft sheets, gold-patterned wallpaper, modern styling. Plenty of space. Plus, a sitting area, a vanity, and a small wet bar.
“Fucking hell,” I mumble to myself before shoving my head into the bathroom. “Fucking hell!”
The bathroom is bigger than my apartment back home. And a lot nicer.
Reluctantly, I turn on the shower and undress. There’s a big, fluffy white robe hanging in the closet, which I commandeer for my own. Once under the shockingly perfect rainfall spray, I use all manner of products, from hair stuff to body stuff, not really sure what any of it actually does, but it all smells nice. By the time I’m done, it’s like I broke into a perfume store and went wild.
I’m thinking about Nolan as I dry off and wrap myself in the robe. This happened so quickly that I barely had time to consider the fallout from what we just did, but now that I’m alone and clean, I can’t help but wonder how everyone back at Smoke is going to react.
Nobody will be happy. Fulco might not care, but he doesn’t care about anything. Bernie will be disappointed. Jamila will be pissed. And Ash, well, I’m terrified of what she’ll say.
I sold myself to a Crowley boy. Gave myself to him in exchange for a dream.
Normal, sane people don’t do stuff like this.
Then again, normal, sane people don’t get to lie in exceedingly comfortable beds wearing fluffy white robes, either.
I snuggle into the sheets, eyes going heavy. It doesn’t take much for me to start drifting, and I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep until I’m woken up to darkness as someone gets into the bed beside me.
I go very still, slowly turning to stare at Nolan. He’s looking back at me, his face impassive. I stretch, stifling a yawn. On the bedside table, the clock reads four-thirty. “Where’d you go?” I say, snuggling down against the pillow.
“Got you clothes for tomorrow.” He’s lying close to me. I can feel the warmth of him, rolling from his skin. “Like I promised.”
“I fell asleep.”
“I see that. In nothing but a robe.”
“Well—” I catch myself, glancing down. Only to realize that the front’s very much open, and there’s about a centimeter of white cotton covering my nipples.
Quickly, I pull the front closed, covering my breasts. A flush runs through me, but not embarrassment. It’s an excited heat from the way he’s staring at my body with a wild hunger. Being half-asleep must’ve softened me, because I don’t tell him to fuck off.
Instead, I shift closer.
“How do you find being my wife so far?” he asks, sitting up and taking his shirt off.
I have to bite my lip to keep from cursing. The man is obscenely muscular, cut like he doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Tattoos cover his skin from wrist to neck, darkening nearly every inch. He lies back down, turned on his side, studying me. His muscles bulge. It’s ridiculous.
“Fine,” I say, gathering myself. “Tiring.”
“I didn’t mean to keep you awake.”
“Don’t pretend like you’re upset about it.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He keeps on staring at me, his gaze unyielding, expectant. Like he wants to move closer, press a hand into the front of my robe, pinch a nipple, make me moan.
Frustration wells up. “What are we doing here, Nolan? Why are we doing this?” I don’t know where the questions come from. I could’ve asked them at any point. Now doesn’t seem ideal, but I feel with a startling certainty that tonight is a turning point. That whatever happens in this bed will set the precedent for everything that follows.
We’ve come to the cliff. I can turn and run away from the edge, or I can dive over, let myself tumble. Except I think I’ve been tumbling already, falling without realizing that I’m falling, hurtling down through space so fast I feel as if I’m standing still. But like the coyote in those old cartoons, once I look down, I’ll feel the ground rush up to meet me.
I don’t want to look. I want to keep my eyes shut, floating forever. Let myself feel good for once.
“We’re going to spend the night together,” he says in his quiet, intense way. “You as my wife. And me as your husband. You can turn your back, close your eyes, and go to sleep, if that’s what you want.”
He leaves the other half unspoken: or you can keep looking at me, and I’m going to kiss you. I know it’s coming. We can both feel the tension between us. That’s why I’m so afraid, so frustrated with myself for feeling this way, but also unable to take him up on his offer.