Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Then he goes stiff, pulling his mouth away from mine to cry out a single word. “Delilah!” he roars with his head thrown back, tendons standing out on his neck while his cum spills onto my stomach.
For one moment, he’s not an animal or a murderer or a monster.
He’s mine, locked with me, lost in what only I can give him.
And then it’s over, and he collapses on his side with an arm draped over my stomach. Now I can breathe, and I do, taking deep gulps while little aftershocks ripple through me. I ache all over, but it’s a good kind of ache. There’s a satisfaction that goes along with it, something deeper than physical pleasure.
I slowly turn my head to the side, nervous to look over at him. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is beginning to slow. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if there is anything to say.
As it turns out, nothing I could say would be better than him drawing me close, wrapping his arms around me. He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to. I understand him. It’s me I’m worried about because right then, I realized the one thing I was hiding from, running from.
I love him. Oh, my god. I love him, and there’s no way for me to let go. I can feel the tears fill my eyes, and I blink them back, not wanting him to see me cry. He has no idea, or maybe he does, and we’re both hopeless causes. All I know is I can’t unfall for him, so what do I do now?
25
LUCAS
I must have slept like the dead.
My head’s in a fog when I open my eyes, but it’s a different sort of fog than the one I’ve experienced lately. Too many mornings in a row, I woke to a pounding head and a sour stomach. This is something entirely different. The fog results from a deep, heavy sleep. I can’t remember the last time I slept so well and completely sober.
Maybe not completely. There are all sorts of drugs for a man to indulge in. Not all of them come in a bottle or a baggie.
Like the sleeping woman in my arms.
I never thought I’d find something as cleansing as fighting. Last night with her brought me a peace I’ve never known. I felt whole, if only for a moment or two. She wiped me clean. She took everything I poured into her, and she stayed. She didn’t run away. No, on the contrary. She curled up beside me and slept with her head on my chest most of the night.
How am I supposed to stay away from her?
How am I supposed to give this up?
I’d stay here with her forever, but certain things can’t be put off. I gently disentangle myself, leaving her curled up on her side—her favorite sleeping position, I guess. She’s still out cold, not so much as stirring when I get out of bed and draw the covers over her shoulder.
It’s a blessing, her being fast asleep like this. I’m not sure what to say, which is increasingly the case with me. I never considered myself someone afraid to say what was on his mind.
But what is there to say, after all? We both know this shouldn’t be happening, that there are rules, and we’re breaking every one. It’s wrong. It could mean a lot more grief for both of us.
Yet there’s no stopping, and we both know that. She proved it to me last night. The way we connected—I didn’t think such a thing was possible. I thought for sure I would scare her away. I showed her the darkest part of myself, a part I’m hardly proud of. Even that wasn’t enough to make her want to disappear.
I pull on my pants from last night before wandering out to the kitchen, where I stop short at the sight of the carnage I caused. I even forgot about that. I was going to make coffee, but the machine was one of last night’s casualties.
I haven’t yet decided whether to wait until Delilah wakes up to start pulling shit together when there’s a knock on the door. I’m getting sick of visitors. I ignore whoever it is and pretend I’m still asleep, but that might only make them knock harder and thus wake Delilah. All I need is someone to see her here—or Charlotte, if it’s her in the hall. Shit. She’s been quiet all this time; of course she’d eventually come knocking.
I rush to the bedroom door and close it quietly before crossing to the front door, where another round of knocking has begun. “Okay, okay,” I mutter. If it is Charlotte, I sure as hell can’t let her in to see the apartment like this. Or Delilah.