Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Donnelly grimaces. “If he’s putting you through all this when he already plans on saying no, then he’s the opposite of nice. He’s a dick. But you think he’s not—so only reasonable conclusion is that he thinks you have a shot.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Did we really just go through mental gymnastics to get here?”
“I’ll do mental backflips for you anytime, babe.”
Babe.
I try and stop myself from floating to him like he’s lassoing me into his chest. No. I need to concentrate.
“So I have a shot,” I say, taking in this newfound confidence with the deepest of breaths. “More bubbles. Less troubles.” The motto is working its way into me. “The only thing I can think that’s bubblier than soda is maybe…champagne? But I think my grandfather never went that route for a reason.”
“Your mom?” Donnelly wonders, a ballpoint pen between his fingers. My mom’s sex addiction could’ve been a factor. Especially since she’s married to a recovering alcoholic.
“Maybe,” I breathe. “Or maybe the soda market is too family-friendly to introduce alcohol in the mix. I don’t know.” I kick the desk and rotate in my chair again. The room blurs, then slowly comes into focus as I decelerate.
I’m simultaneously getting somewhere but also hitting a wall.
Donnelly flips a page in his spiral sketchbook, and his pen flies in hurried lines and arches. His concentration attracts me just as much as his shirtless chest. Tattoos scatter his white skin in random but aesthetically pleasing patterns. A longer strand of hair brushes his forehead, and he pushes it back without looking up from the drawing. I listen to the scratch of his pen on paper, and I wonder if this is weird—how much I could just watch him sketch. How attracted I am to his very essence on my bed.
It’s hot how he brings up his knee, just to give his elbow a rest. His biceps are cut without him needing to flex, and I have the sudden urge to trace the line of the muscle. With my finger and my tongue.
Squeezing my thighs together creates an artificial pressure, which helps the current build-up of arousal.
“What are you working on?” I wonder.
“Bubble Queen.” His eyes lift to mine, his lip quirking.
I smile, then leave the globe chair. Headed his way. “Is she cute?”
“Cutest of her galaxy.”
Sinking next to my boyfriend on the bed, I peer over at the sketch. He angles the notebook so I can see. Black ink flows in beautiful lines. Presiding on a tower of coral is a queen—but not just any typical fantasy monarch. Bubbles billow from her flowy hair, and soap suds hide her toes. Her Oscar-worthy dress is haute-bubble-couture, and she blows a tinier bubble with her delicate hand.
“She looks so fragile,” I say quietly. “Like no one can touch her or she’d just pop.”
His eyes sink into me for a beat. Then he sketches a man at her side. Donnelly draws smoky whisps around him. All soft lines. Almost invisible. Deep longing seeps from the penned irises like he’s hopelessly in love with the Bubble Queen. My heart capsizes from Donnelly’s talent. I knew he could design tattoos and sketch faces, but this is something different entirely.
He’s drawing a story.
“Lucky for her,” Donnelly tells me, “she has the Shadow King by her side.”
“And no one can touch him,” I say. “Because he slips right through their fingers if they try.” I narrow my eyes at the page. “What if they’re not a couple? They’re actually on warring kingdoms, feuding with each other for centuries.”
His brows rise. “You’d turn a romance into a tragedy?” He’s genuinely shocked I’d be rooting for the demise of our fictional couple.
“Not a tragedy. But their love story is not so easy. They have a centuries-old feud to wade through. They have the trauma of not being able to be touched by anyone. But through all of that, they’re destined to be together. They just don’t know it yet—they can’t know.”
Donnelly’s pen stills on the page. He takes his glasses off and searches my features. “I thought you’d want Bubble Queen and Shadow King to have an easier time is all.”
“Some epic romances aren’t born from easy times,” I say softly. “They’re born from strife and conflict and sometimes horrible shitty things happening.”
He knows I’m not referring to our fictional couple anymore. His fingertips brush the top of my kneecap, the featherlight touch unearthing my teeming desires. I go still. I don’t even breathe. Like one little movement will send Donnelly fleeing to his bedroom.
“Luna.” The way he says my name makes me press my thighs together again. Donnelly slips the pen behind his ear and gently closes the notebook. His eyes travel over my movements, watching me intently. Then he says, “I don’t want you to believe we wouldn’t have made it if we didn’t go through something terrible together.”