Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 46183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“But –”
“Tell me you understand, Fae.”
It’s the Fae that does it.
It’s the way he says it like a plea.
Like he’s the one who’s begging now.
He’s the one who’s good and I’m the one who’s bad and tormenting him. And I never ever want to do that. I’ve pushed him enough tonight, so I look into his animal eyes that look almost anguished. “If I say yes, will you kiss me then?”
His jaw clenches and he tugs on my hair. “Fuck yes.”
I smile slightly and fist my dress even more tightly. “Okay. I’ll hold on to my dress. I won’t let you push it up. I won’t let you see her. No matter what you say.”
A relieved sigh escapes him then. As big a sigh as the wind around us.
And then he kisses me as he promised.
Something bad is going to happen. On the field, I mean.
I don’t know how I know it but I do.
It’s a feeling that’s been plaguing me ever since last night and somehow has been exacerbated since the championship game started.
So I finally figured out how to attend the game and my own show.
I got to the auditorium way earlier than they asked us to and got ready for my dance before I ran all the way across the school – because my auditorium and his soccer field are on opposite sides of campus from each other – to attend the game with Tempest.
But anyway, here I am, decked out in an ice blue tutu and a white leotard and full-on make-up to look like a fairy, watching the game that’s about to be done in like, ten minutes.
Our team only needs one more goal in order to win and things are looking good. Oh, and if Reed makes this goal, then he’ll not only win the championship but also their contest.
Once and for all.
He’s in the lead right now and he needs this last goal to seal his victory over my brother.
But I feel like something bad is going to happen.
If I’m being honest though, there’s no reason for me to be feeling like this.
No reason at all. Everything is fine actually.
Everything is more than fine.
Because he kissed me. Last night.
He kissed me for a long, long time.
For a little while there I thought he’d never stop.
I thought I’d never stop.
Because when his mouth was on me, drugging me with his warm, wet kisses, I realized that I’d wanted this for so long. I’d wanted this every time he looked at me and every time he said something dirty and made me blush. I’d wanted this every time he brought me cupcakes and gave me a ride in his Mustang.
So yeah, for a little while there, he became my entire world.
Reed Roman Jackson and his mouth and his Mustang with foggy windows.
His Mustang in which I came.
Well, I came on his lap. Twice.
Because he wasn’t happy with just once and wouldn’t stop kissing me or rocking me in his lap. And like the ballerina I am, I danced and writhed as much as he wanted me to.
After two though, I told him to stop, as he predicted days and days ago, and for which I’d practiced like a good girl.
But instead of reminding me that all my practice failed, his gray eyes simply turned all soft and liquid and he kissed me on my sweaty forehead, making me burrow into his chest.
God.
I never ever imagined that he could be so… tender and sweet and just everything.
Anyway, after that I gave him his present.
The one I had in my backpack.
It’s something that I’ve been working on for the past several weeks.
A sweater.
“Because you’re always cold,” I told him, because he always is.
That’s why he wears his hoodies practically all the time.
“And because white’s your favorite color, and look.” I pointed to the black intarsia that I’d done on the front. “It’s a mustang. An actual mustang, not the car. Oh and it was my very first intarsia project. It came out nice, right?”
I’d seen the pattern in a knitting book months ago – before I really knew him – –and it’d reminded me of him.
So when I decided to knit for him, I went and dug the magazine up and well, I stabbed myself in the fingers with the needles a million times before I got the design right.
Reed didn’t say anything. Not for a long time as he stared down at the sweater I made for him and I had to ask, “You don’t like it?” I started pulling it away from his grip, which was surprisingly tight. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m gonna make you another one and –”
“I like it,” he said in a hoarse whisper, speaking over me.
And then he pulled me to him and pressed his mouth on my forehead.