Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
She releases a shaky breath, burying her face in her hands and propping her elbows on her knees.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she chants, the words muffled against her palms.
I sit beside her and pry her hands away. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“This is not how it’s supposed to be,” she says, her voice wobbling. “I’m supposed to be able to fuck and go. I’m on a solo journey. It’s just the first sex since my divorce. It’s not supposed to feel like…”
She bites her lip, cutting herself off.
“Not supposed to feel like what?” I ask, holding my breath, silently urging her to articulate what sang between us like a tuning fork when I was inside her.
“Like I went to outer space.” She closes her eyes, biting into the quiver of her bottom lip. “Like I discovered a new planet. Like I walked on air.”
All the tension I’ve held in my muscles since I realized she was going to leave without acknowledging just how epic the lovemaking was drains from me, and my shoulders slump. I take her chin between my fingers and turn her head so we’re looking at each other, our faces only inches apart.
“Does it make it better to know it was the same for me?” I ask.
“Not really, no. I’m… I’m scared, Judah. I can’t do this again yet. I’m not ready. I shouldn’t have—”
“I won’t rush you.” I brush my thumb over her cheekbone. “But I told you sex isn’t casual to me, so when it felt like this was something you could brush off—”
“It’s not.” She takes my hand and kisses my knuckle. “It’s definitely not, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for a relationship. This can be special and also something I’m not ready to take any further.”
“I respect that. Does that mean we won’t do it again?”
I went four years without sex, but I didn’t know about her. Now I do, and I’m not sure I can go four days without this.
“I don’t know.” She swipes both hands over her face. “Can we take it one day at a time?”
“Yes, of course.” I kiss her forehead and bend to zip her other boot. “Now you better go get dinner from Saffron’s.”
“You’re right.” She stands and hesitates at the table by my bed, then opens it, staring down at the gigantic box of condoms and the shiny red copy of All About Love. “Did you finish the book?”
I nod, taking it out and handing it to her. Little Post-its feather as she flips the pages and pauses to read things I scribbled in the margins. Remembering some of the notes I made, I want to grab it back, but I restrain myself and let her look. She pauses in chapter four where her name appears, the tip of her finger caressing the line where I highlighted and circled soledad hermosa. She pulls out a pink slip of paper I was using as a bookmark. Shit. It’s that damn grocery list of hers from months ago that I found in my wallet and couldn’t make myself throw away. If she thought I was a stalker before…
She doesn’t comment but rubs the pink slip of paper between her fingers before slipping it back into the pages and placing the book into the open drawer.
“Am I allowed to ask when we’ll see each other again?” I smooth all expression from my face, not wanting to project anything that will make her feel guilty or obligated, but I do want to know.
“Call me.” She folds my sweatshirt neatly and places it on the bench at the foot of the bed.
“Sounds good.” I follow her out of the room and down the stairs. When she enters the garage and opens her car door, she whirls back to me and grins, unruly waves fanning out around her.
“You really thought you were gonna make up for lost time with that huge box of Costco condoms, huh?”
I laugh and flash her a middle finger. “Get out of my house and don’t come back.”
“You don’t mean that.” She pokes out her tongue, climbs in, starts the car. She drives down my driveway, and a hollowness settles in my chest as soon as she’s out of sight.
“No,” I tell the empty garage. “I don’t mean that at all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SOLEDAD
I have a bruised poontang thanks to you.”
I snort laughing at Hendrix’s outrageous—and incidentally accurate—statement.
“They’re called pole kisses,” I say, grinning at her and Yasmen over my menu. “We’ll all have them in unusual places tomorrow, but they say it’s hardest the first time.”
I lay my menu down and smile at Cassie, Grits’s head chef, as she approaches our table.
“Have you ladies decided what you’re having?” Cassie asks, setting down a basket that is half corn muffins and half biscuits.
“To what do we owe this honor?” Hendrix smiles up at her. “Not every day the chef herself comes to take our order.”