Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
With a hand on his hip and the other pointing toward my house, he stares at the ground.
Good, because I hate his eyes. And I adore them, too. Especially when he touches me and tells me I’m beautiful. And now, he’s punishing me by refusing to look at me.
In a fog of shame, I hug the sandwich to my chest and drag my feet home. As I walk, I sneak peeks over my shoulder. He doesn’t move. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they’re following me, watching me, protecting me.
Whatever this is, however inappropriate and risky, he doesn’t want it to end. Spending four private hours a day together for the rest of the year, it’s only going to become more. More punishments, more music, more Mr. Marceaux. I don’t care what he says. This isn’t over.
“It’s over.” I slam the beer bottle down harder than I intended and cringe at the cracking sound on Mom’s glass table. Shit. I rub a finger over the chip and glance at her apologetically. “Sorry, Mom.”
“I don’t care about the damn table. I’m concerned about you.” She corks a wine bottle on the back counter and crosses the kitchen to sit beside me, a glass of red cupped in her hand. Setting it on the table, she twists the stem and gathers her words. “I know you’ve been unhappy for a while, but this is different. You’ve been a hot-tempered, sulky pain-in-the-ass for the past few weeks.”
Five weeks, to be exact.
Five weeks since I kissed Ivory. Since I felt her skin beneath my hands. Since I punished her the way we both need. Five agonizing weeks since I sent her home in the park with regret overrunning my nervous system.
“Honey.” She places her hand on my forearm and gives it a firm squeeze. “Does Joanne know it’s over?”
Joanne is still texting me, but her messages go unanswered. I know what she wants, she knows what I want, and neither of us is willing to compromise.
“She still stubbornly refuses to accept my terms.” I shove a hand through the overlong strands touching my forehead. Christ, I need a haircut. “This has nothing to do with her.”
“Oh.” Mom’s persistent blue eyes roam my face, searching for answers. “This isn’t about your car, is it?”
“No, I got the car back yesterday.”
Though that put me in one helluva mood. After watching Ivory walk away, I made my way back to the parking lot, and the GTO was gone. Stolen. Fucking jacked. I had to call Deb to take me to the police station. When she dropped me off at home, I stood on the doorstep, vibrating with turmoil as I told her, No, I’m not going to fuck you. I should’ve been nicer to her for helping me—with the ride and with Beverly Rivard’s husband—but I was too fucking distraught to let her in.
The GTO wasn’t the only thing I lost in the park that day.
The cops recovered my car, the interior gutted and body stripped. It took weeks to bring it back to mint condition.
But Ivory… My hand clenches around the bottle. I’m making every effort I can to ensure the thing between us isn’t recovered. The attraction remains, stronger than ever, burning like a red-hot ember. It sizzles to be stoked when I sit beside her on the piano bench, hisses with sparks when I slap her wrists for missing a note, and crackles and pops every damn time our eyes connect.
Our first week together moved so fucking fast my nerves are still running wild with hunger. If I hadn’t pulled back, she would be in my bed right now, her seventeen-year-young body bowing and flushing beneath my belt and her huge adoring eyes begging me for things I’m unable to give her. Leopold. An open, lawful relationship. My heart…
She’s too young to separate sex and love, and I’ve lost interest in anything beyond physical pleasure.
Once you have what you want, her distrust in men will be irreparable.
Mom watches me in that intuitive way she does, her soft expression framed by black hair that curls above her shoulders. She reaches up to pinch the ends of a loose lock, brushing the tuft back and forth along her jaw as she studies me. I chug the beer and pretend to ignore her.
She drops her hand and tilts her head. “You met someone.”
Here we go. “No, I—”
“Emeric Michael Marceaux, don’t you lie to your mother.”
I stand and move to the counter, leaning against it and balancing the bottle on the ledge. “Not talking about this with you, Mom.”
I want to, but voicing it makes it real.
Footsteps approach the kitchen doorway.
“Not talking about what?” Dad wanders in, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, his face buried in his phone.
“Emeric met someone.” She smiles over the rim of her wine glass, eyes locked on me.