Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
And, yes, I love the surf, I love the sand, I look great in a bikini.
But that's only part of the appeal.
The Kate Chopin of it all—
He never got that.
Maybe men just can't. Maybe men can't understand what it means to be a woman in the world, even one without a husband or children.
The expectations are still there.
They're still heavy.
And the promise of freedom—
It's enticing.
I'm sure there are things I didn't understand about him, things I don't understand about being a man.
But I never pretended.
I hid.
That's different.
And now, I'm here, trying to dive back into my body, worried I won't do it right.
Because I might fall for this guy.
Because I might screw him up.
Because, maybe, I want to screw him up.
And, maybe, just maybe, I'm a bad role model, again. Maybe the people I love are the same as me—
Weighed down by my expectations for them.
Hiding behind them.
Hiding the places they hurt.
I want to be brave, to lead by example.
But I'm not even brave enough to ask. To look. To see.
And that's the thing—
My ex was right.
I want everything this guy has to offer. For my body, anyway. If I risk my heart, I risk it.
After all, I made this choice knowing what might happen.
Knowing I might get hurt.
I already know how this ends.
I keep everything to myself.
I can't even tell my sister. How would I ever tell him?
Why?
I guess that's clarity. It's not smart, diving in head-first, but I'm tired of doing the smart thing.
And if I fall, well—
I've picked myself up after worse.
Chapter Twelve
PATRICK
This is not an ideal situation.
Imogen is downstairs, and I'm here, hiding in the bathroom, clinging to every word from my online crush.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
There's a gorgeous woman downstairs, a woman who wants to fuck me senseless.
Who only wants to fuck me senseless.
It's obvious. I want the honesty and intimacy I feel when I read Hearts and Thorn's posts.
I want to be someone's confidant.
I want to understand.
All this time and I still don't understand—
But it's not like I'm going to figure it out now.
Imogen is here and she needs satisfaction.
Sure, we're never going to be best friends, but we are lovers. A certain kind of lovers. And this type of intimacy is plenty thrilling on its own.
She's open here.
Vulnerable here.
Sexy as hell here.
Less pouting. More making her come.
I leave my cell on my dresser and I move downstairs.
"Hey." She watches me descend. "Did you fall back asleep?"
"Brushing my teeth." Not a total lie.
"Getting fresh for me?"
"How'd you know?"
"I figured the market opened in Australia."
"Is that how the time zones work?"
"Maybe? I don't have them memorized."
"Japan," I say. "That's the market for me."
"Of course. How else could you afford this place?" She lets out a low, throaty laugh as I sit next to her and pull her into my lap. "Hey."
"Hey." I bring my hand to her cheek. "This is really fucking sexy."
"Is it the bad taste in music?" She motions to the Sinful Serenade logo embossed on the black tee.
"They're customers."
"Aren't they a big deal?"
"Pretty big."
"It's not my kind of music."
"How about I play an album and we see how much you rock out?"
"Well, I'm not going to deny I enjoy No Way in Hell. It's a jam. And romantic in its own way." She looks down at me. "Do you really know them?"
"Why? Want an introduction?"
"A threesome."
I laugh. "Is that part of your experimentation?"
"Would you have a threesome with another guy?"
"Maybe."
"Really?" she asks.
"No."
"I knew it. You're vanilla. The red Converse are a lie," she says.
"Oh no, I'm a freak. I just don't like to share." I pull her closer.
"Me either." She looks into my eyes. "You're handsome up close."
"Not from far away?"
"There too." She leans in to press her lips to mine.
"I came downstairs with pure intentions."
"I know." She kisses me harder this time, claiming some part of me, something beyond the physical. "Have you really worn this?"
"No."
"It doesn't really count as your clothes then," she says.
"So you want to take it off?" I play with the edge of the t-shirt.
"If you help."
I run my fingers over the waistband of her bottoms. The soft skin of her stomach.
She shudders as I slip my hand under the t-shirt and cup her breast.
I run my thumb over her nipple and bring my lips to her neck.
She wraps her legs around me. "Is everything okay?"
"Huh?" Are we talking about something? Blood is fleeing my brain at an alarming rate.
"You were upstairs awhile."
"Just something on the net."
"Important?"
"Not as important as this." I run my thumb over her nipple.
She rocks her hips against me. "Patrick—"
I pull the t-shirt over her head.
She shifts and pushes the boxers over her ass. She slides into my lap in only those gorgeous black panties. Cotton. Lace trim. The same style she wore last time.
This is Imogen, to a t.
Practical and sexy and hiding everything I want to see.