Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
And I fucking hate it.
After I order another round, I check my cell. Nothing from Val. More from my friends.
They're eager to know how things are going, what we're doing, when I'm going to finally realize I'm in love with Val.
But they don't get it.
It doesn't matter what I realize or when.
It won't happen.
The twenty-minute wait for her text feels like three hours, even with the drink.
Val: You're good to come home.
That's the entire message?
Val: Everything was good. I'm good. But I'm exhausted, so I'm going right to bed.
Did he wear her out?
Dare: You don't want to talk about anything?
Val: In the morning, if that's okay?
Did you fuck him?
I type the words, then delete them. I'm not ready to see the answer. I'm not ready to face the reality.
Dare: If you promise you're okay.
Val: I promise. Do you?
No. I'm going to throw up. But I need to get over it.
Dare: Of course.
Val: Good night, Dare.
Dare: Sweet dreams.
For her, maybe. But for me?
Not a chance.
Another drink is a bad idea. Two is worse. But, hey, how often do you get the news your best friend boinked her roommate?
By the time I leave the bar, I'm swaying, but I'm not far gone enough to feel better. I walk back to the apartment, let myself inside, listen for sounds of life.
Nothing. Only the hum of the air-conditioning and the closed doors to both Archie and Val's rooms.
Is she sleeping in his bed? Is he in hers?
My head is fuzzy, but the mental images in my head are crystal clear. Val, in the throes of passion, groaning his name again and again.
Exactly what I want for her. What I'm supposed to want for her.
I brush my teeth, I strip, I climb into bed.
My sleep is restless. Dreams of Val in his arms, in his bed, in his life.
Sleeping with him is one thing, but trusting him?
I wake sweaty and exhausted. The place is still quiet. It's late enough I'm rocking a headache instead of a buzz, but it's too early for Val.
She's still in her room, sound asleep, dreaming of another man.
I go through my routine; I dress; I leave the apartment in search of distraction. Nothing in my aimless wander appeals, but somehow, I find myself at the beach.
I dip my feet in the Mediterranean—any more feels wrong without her. The water is cold enough to wake me up, but it doesn't illuminate anything.
The walk home is the same blur of familiar sights. It's strange. The Gothic Quarter is unlike anything I see in my normal life, but after two days, it feels passé. Another steep church. Another narrow street. Another tourist shop.
I guess anyone can get used to anything.
I can get used to this.
I grab coffee, one for her and one for me, and return to the apartment. The place is quiet. Still. Val is asleep.
In my room, I fail to straighten my thoughts.
They only want to go two places—The image of Val with Archie.
Or the image of Val with me.
It's a bad idea, I know, but I can't help myself. I need a break from the dull ache in my chest. I double-check the apartment—still quiet—and I set up in my room.
My heart is as eager as my body. I don't envision some dirty, depraved scenario. Not sex in the bar bathroom or diving between her legs under the table.
No, something soft and slow and intimate.
The kind of sex I've never had. Does it feel as good as it does in the movies? Or is that another bullshit fantasy, the way Playboy is?
It's close enough, I taste it, feel it, see it. Val's body wrapped around mine, her lips on my neck, her groan in my ear.
The voice in my head—the one telling me not to imagine sex with my best friend—fades, and I surrender to the fantasy. I wrap my hand around my cock, and I move in time with my thoughts.
For a few moments, the world is bliss.
Then a sound interrupts.
A knock.
A gasp.
A door.
"Shit." Val lets out a soft sigh. "Sorry. I'm getting coffee. I'll be back soon." She slams the door shut and races out of the apartment.
She needs to get that far away from my dick.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
VAL
Think unsexy thoughts.
Think unsexy thoughts.
Really, anything that isn't Dare's hand around his cock. His bare ass and thighs as he pumps into his hand.
Nope. It's like telling someone not to picture an elephant. All I see is the trunk in action. And that's not even something I find appealing, usually. It's not that I have an issue with a sexual partner touching themselves. I just don't crave it.
There aren't any male-solo-sessions in my classy porn collection. Or my spank bank. Even before The Incident, before male desire felt more threatening than erotic, I didn't find the image of a male masturbatory session particularly appealing.