Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Her head jerks backward. “Nothing. Why would I be afraid of something? We’re talking about you.”
“No. We’re talking about your need to know my business. Why are you afraid of not knowing?”
“You’re deflecting, Fitz.”
“You’re prying.”
“I’m not prying. You brought it up.”
“You asked Will behind my back.”
“You put your dick in me!” She stabs her hands into her hair. “And I’m not pregnant, but I could have been. And I wouldn’t ‘get rid’ of it. I’d want your blood type, medical history, and every goddamn branch of your family tree. But all I need right now is not to see you. So fight your fucking fires. Go live your pathetically lonely life. I’m out of here in eight weeks. So, do me a favor. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Pretend I’m dead to you like you pretend everyone else is dead to you.” She spins away from me and stomps toward the back door.
I grab her arm and drag her into the laundry room, shutting the door behind us.
“What are you doing?” Wriggling her whole body, she tries to escape my hold. “Stop manhandling me!” She flails, breaking free and pounding her fists into my chest. “You’re a stubborn bully, Calvin Fitzgerald!” She lifts her chin and scowls before kicking my shin.
I wince.
She’s. Fucking. Killing. Me.
I want to tell her, so she can fix the broken pieces of my life. That’s what she does; she makes everything better. But not this. She won’t understand my grief, my fears, my need to control what’s left of my life.
When she reaches for the door handle, I hug her back to my chest, pinning her arms to her side. With my lips at her ear, I whisper, “I don’t pretend they’re dead. They are dead. They’re all dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
JAYMES
My anger dies.
Psych nurses are practical and empathetic. We feel deeply for the people in our care. Yet, we can make grounded decisions.
With him, I’m anything but grounded.
Fitz’s chilling confession slays me. I think those words will haunt me forever.
I don’t hide my tears. They’re all for him, whether he wants them or not. The ache in my chest, the knot in my stomach—they’re all for him.
His forehead rests on the top of my head. “Can you let it go now? Can this be enough for you?” His words are strained. I feel his desperation on a visceral level.
When his hold on me relaxes, I turn and face him while wiping my eyes. I nod slowly. He doesn’t have to say any more. But I do want more.
“Enough?” My nod turns to a headshake. “I want your lips on mine.” Lifting onto my toes, I brush my lips against his. “I want your hands all over my body.” My fingertips ghost along his palms. “Under my skin,” I whisper, dragging my lips down his neck. “Between my legs.” I nip at his skin. “I want to feel you deep inside of me.” I tease his skin just under the hem of his shirt. “And even then, it will never be enough for me.”
“Jaymes,” he whispers, brow tight. However, it doesn’t keep his hands out of my hair. It doesn’t keep his lips away from mine.
I exhale and melt into him, opening my mouth and sliding my tongue along his. In two months, I’m leaving Missoula.
For now, I’m here. I’m exactly where I want to be.
My hands grip his shirt to keep me upright while the intensity of our kiss grows, while dopamine floods my veins, rousing a deep need. He presses me to the wall, wedging his thick leg between mine.
Today is the day we will get kicked out of the house.
“I can’t stop.” He says each word in a strangled voice, his hand sliding up my shirt and yanking my bra down to expose my breast.
“Don’t”—I pant so hard my chest hurts—“stop.” My desperate fingers unbutton his jeans and fumble with his zipper.
He’s inciting a riot in my head, and common sense is getting its ass kicked by lust. The need is feral and unrecognizable. I’ve never felt this lack of control over my body.
The creak and thunk of the back door closing send us apart. Fitz keeps a steady, drunk gaze on me while he buttons his jeans. I, on the other hand, suck in a sharp breath and hold it while I straighten my bra before my fingers race through my mussed hair.
Maren opens the laundry-room door before either one of us has a chance to speak. “Uh . . . what’s going on?”
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
Fitz doesn’t flinch. I’ve never seen such militant composure. I see the man who jumps out of planes and treks toward wildfires without much thought.
“Jaymes wanted to kiss me, but she didn’t want you to see.” He smirks.
Maren narrows her eyes for barely a second before laughing. “Seriously, what are you doing?”