Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
He does it on a growl.
Thick and deep.
And I have to clench my thighs like I always do. Before smiling and saying, “Hi. Happy Monday.”
His jaw clenches.
“So I wanted to drop something off.”
“What?”
“Uh, it’s just something I wrote,” I tell him, still keeping my hands back. “And I wanted to slide it in your mailbox.”
He studies my face that I hope appears upbeat and sunny to contrast his black mood. “Something you wrote.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Because you said that I’m not allowed to talk to you. The other day.”
At the mention of the other day, his jaw clenches again and it stays that way for a few seconds before he loosens it and growls, “You’re talking now.”
“Right,” I say, still smiling. “I realize that. And that’s why I wanted to drop it off. The thing I wrote, in your mailbox. But then you opened the door and I —”
“I don’t want it.”
“What?”
“I don’t want it,” he clips. “Whatever it is that you wrote.”
I finally bring it forward. “But I was just going to give it to you now —”
“It’s pink,” he says with clenched teeth, looking extremely offended.
I look down at the envelope in my hand, which is indeed pink.
Or rather a shade of it.
I spent the entire day yesterday, or at least the six hours that I was allotted for my outing, to look for these envelopes. I wanted to get the perfect shade, so I went to every gift shop and bookstore in St. Mary’s and the neighboring towns: his town, my town even.
I finally found it in his though.
“Not really. It’s more rosy,” I say, licking my lips. “Like my lipstick the other day.”
Pinky Winky Promises.
The one he said that he’ll wreck if I try to suck his cock.
Just the thought of it makes me clench my thighs again and it’s such a big clench that he notices. His eyes go to my pressed thighs before moving up and resting for a second or two on my rapidly breathing chest.
I have a cardigan on, so I can’t show him the effect he has on my nipples, but I wish I could.
Then he’d know.
That I’ve been thinking about him all weekend.
I wonder if he was thinking about me.
He brings his now smoky eyes up. “You can take it back.”
“But I wrote it for you.”
“And I’m not interested in reading it.”
I take a step closer to him and, sliding into his earlier role, he moves back.
Which hurts me.
Because this is taking a step back, isn’t it? From all the progress we’ve made.
But I don’t let it stop me — I can’t — and so I take another step closer and I keep doing that until his back is to the door and he has nowhere to go.
Until I’ve trapped him.
Which is laughable because I really can’t, but at least for now, he’s not going anywhere.
“But I can’t take it back,” I tell him, looking into his uncompromising face. “It’s about a dream I had.”
It really is.
And all the things I’ve been thinking about since Saturday.
When I got back and told Salem and Poe about what happened, Poe immediately told me to sneak attack him on Monday and jump his bones in his office. Salem proposed a subtler approach though. She reminded me that she wrote letters to Arrow and so maybe I should do the same.
And then it clicked.
My dreams.
Maybe I should tell him about them more.
Like I did at the tree that day.
His chest expands on a breath. “A dream.”
“Yes.” I nod. “And the only person I want to tell is you.”
“I’m the last fucking person you want to tell it to.”
“Please?”
At my soft, pleading voice, his fists clench and his chest stops moving for a few moments.
Those few moments turn into hours and days and weeks until it starts up again, his chest. With a sharp, sighing breath, and he takes it from me.
He takes the dream I brought him, the pink paper looking so fragile in his large, scrape-y hand.
So perfect.
“Thank you,” I whisper with gratitude.
Another sharp breath. “Just go to class.”
And that’s that.
He has my letter now and I go to my classes walking on clouds.
I’m also walking on tenterhooks for the rest of the day. On pins and needles and thorns, imagining his reaction.
Wondering if he has read it yet.
If he’s mad about it.
Maybe I should go to him. Maybe I should see for myself what he’s going through and if I can do something about it.
But then I don’t have to.
Because he comes to me.
Or rather, he comes to our table during lunch.
I’m sitting next to Callie while Poe and Salem are sitting on the opposite side. And usually, I keep my head down when he comes.
But today I do look up.
Just to see if he’s read it yet. Just to see what his reaction is if he has.