Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“I don’t know how to take that.”
“Whenever you and I stumble into a heated argument at my place, you wander towards the kitchen and grab a bagel or oyster crackers.”
She’s too good for basic bitch Saltines.
“You don’t like confrontation-”
“Does anyone really like confrontation?”
“Yes.”
The cringe that crosses my face is instant.
“You, however, clam up when your emotions get too high or too out control or out of check, and then shove something inside your mouth like you’re silencing yourself. When did that start?”
“I don't know,” I mumble and fight the urge to grab the piece of bread telling me to pick it up to make everything okay.
God, if only she really knew how much better about this shit, I’ve gotten over the years! Talking situations out has never worked for me. Listening. Waiting. Playing the odds, the probabilities just like I do in card games, is what works for me. That’s what I’ve done for years. Fully opening yourself up for another person, exposing your essence for them to just empty their own fucked up opinions, unjustified judgments, and grisly baggage into you? For you to carry that weight you agreed to share yet have to keep even when they abruptly exit your life?
No.
Never again.
“The guy you kissed in the rain,” she leads the conversation back to the topic I wish to avoid. “Did you eat when you two fought?”
“We didn’t fight,” the words pour out of me while my finger runs around the rim of my flute glass to prevent me from going after the bread.
“You didn’t fight?”
The sharp look she’s given pushes her back in her seat. “Do you fight with your Chardonnay?”
“Of course not.”
“And why not?”
“Do you mean beside the obvious fact it is an inanimate object?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to give personification to my alcoholic beverage?”
“Yes.”
She hums as though intrigued. “Alright, I’ll play along. I don’t argue with my wine or whiskey – for those nights I’m feeling frisky – because the point is for it to relax me. To help me unwind. To slow the noise down in my mind.”
“To make you feel good, right.”
“If we’re just gonna put it simply, yeah.”
“That’s why I didn’t fight with Ryder Collins. Because that’s what dating him was always like. He never wanted to add stress or unhappiness to my world. The one thing he constantly strove to do was to make me feel good…”
--
“Almost,” I airily whimper, fingers desperately grabbing a fistful of his white t-shirt. “Almost…”
“That’s it, Pres,” he encourages, his hot breath dripping down my ear, as my lower muscles steadily tense around his pumping finger. “Fuck, you look so good right now.”
The digits keep their rhythm.
I keep my rocking.
“Fuck, you always look so good, baby.” His sweet words are met with additional wetness. “How the hell did I get this lucky?” Ryder’s teeth gently scraping my ear is followed by a sexual request, “Let me watch you do that thing you only do for me.”
Air ceases its attempt to get back into my lungs.
“Come for me, baby.”
And I do.
Those four little words are all it takes.
My body explodes into more pieces than I could ever count causing my fingers to clench his shirt tighter to help steady me. I arch up towards the heavens that are calling me home on wings that only he’s capable of giving me. Soft moan after moan flood out of me as Ryder’s legs, which are cradling one of mine, pin my wiggling frame in place, trapping me in the moment. Trapping me in ecstasy I can’t imagine experiencing anywhere else or with anyone else. Turning me from the tamed tiger that I’m known for being around our private school campus into the primitive, uncaged animal that only knows survival.
I swear every orgasm from him feeds that need.
And the only thing I need more than it is, Ryder to survive.
He’s my everything.
Being with him is my destiny.
My boyfriend’s fingers gently slide out of me at the same time he kisses the side of my forehead. “You know what, Pres?”
“Hm?”
“I don’t know if I’m addicted to your moans or you coming.”
“Both?” Giggling, I wiggle my shorts back into place, thankful the blanket is still covering us. “It could definitely be both.”
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ thinking both,” he happily agrees on a slow nod.
Casually, I look up to see his bright blue eyes shimmering, shining as if he was just given three wishes by a Genie or as if he’s hit the multi-billion-dollar lottery. This glisten is the one I live to see. That I get out of bed excited to help create. One that I’d give my last drop of blood to immortalize right where it is. Whenever I’m around, there’s always that particular light. And that effortless light reminds me that I don’t have to look like the other girls we go to school with to be wanted. That light that reminds me it’s not about race or ethnicity or religion but romance. Not the deafening volumes of social classes, but the thundering roars of body language.