Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I did what a man told me to do.
Afterward, the conversation somehow ended up on movies, and I learned that prior to ten years ago, Edison knew nothing about American movies. He'd never seen the classics like Die Hard, Rocky, or even The Breakfast Club, and had never known the disgusting childhood delicacies like Hi C, Lunchables, or French Toast Crunch.
"Why not just have real French toast?" he'd asked, sounding confused.
"Because I was eight and not allowed to use the stove yet," I told him with an eye roll even though he couldn't see. "Besides, it doesn't actually taste like French toast. Kind of like how Cookie Crisp doesn't actually taste like cookies."
"Never had that either," he admitted.
"You've been deprived. Or, you know, had a mother who actually gave a shit about you," I said, meaning to keep it light, but he took the topic of conversation and picked it up, telling me about his mother who sounded like she did, of course, love him a hell of a lot more than my mother loved me. Though she'd died when he was young, and his voice went uncommonly guarded around that part, which, well, was something I understood too much to push, even if maybe I wanted to.
The following night, twenty bucks of a "finder's fee" in my pocket from Meryl because yet another trip had been made from a Henchmen to the store, this time to load up on beer, and not Pabst or Natty Ice, but actually the stuff that didn't taste like piss in a can, and therefore cost more, I made my way to the food store, then over to the compound where Edison met me inside the door, and I held out dinner.
A box of French Toast Crunch and a box of Cookie Crisp, along with a gallon of milk.
And the laugh he let out, and the light in his eyes at my idea made a strange, tingly sensation spread across my chest.
And I figured maybe trying wasn't so bad after all. He'd fucked me in the shower that night from behind, whispering something low and filthy-sounding in Romanian, something that sent shivers through my belly - and lower - until a screaming orgasm crashed through me, echoing off the tiles in the shower. He kept thrusting too, repeating something over and over that I couldn't understand but for some reason sounded a lot like praise as he found his own orgasm, then pulled me back against his chest until my newfound aftershocks subsided.
The next morning, knowing he was an early riser, and not wanting to have to answer questions about where I was heading, I got up early.
But already, his side of the bed was empty.
I rushed to get ready, trying to limit the amount of time he would have to answer questions.
But when he walked in with egg and cheese bagels with coffee from She's Bean Around - a luxury I only allowed myself on holidays or my birthday - and found me looking ready to bolt, a darkness came over his eyes that looked a lot like disappointment.
And, maybe for the first time with a man, I really, really didn't like seeing it there.
"I have an... appointment today, but I have a little bit," I told him, forcing a small smile that seemed to take a little of the tension out of his shoulders.
He wanted me to try.
And I was.
But this was maybe the first time I got to see that he too was trying.
I wasn't delusional.
He was an outlaw biker.
He had a voice that liquified panties within a mile around.
He had a dark and dangerous and sexy as all fuck vibe to him.
He could have, and likely had, enjoyed way more than his fair share of women. Casually. Because that was the lifestyle he lived in. Guns, money, drinking, danger, and chicks.
That didn't bother me.
Every woman in his past was part of the reason he was who he was; they had to be alright with me.
Because I was really starting to appreciate who he was.
But because I knew what his lifestyle was like, I knew that this - whatever this thing was between us - was as new to him as it was to me.
We were both clumsy pioneers, exploring, trying to find our footing in a new landscape.
Edison, well, he was much more sure-footed than I was.
And, sure, maybe he came more prepared for the task, maybe his bag was full of provisions and safety nets and a compass navigating his way.
I was not so lucky, and I felt like I was constantly tripping, falling on my face.
But Edison?
Yeah, he was pulling both our weights.
And since I knew this was as new to him as it was to me, that said he was really trying.
And he needed to know I wasn't shoving that in his face.