Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
She’s silent for a moment—an uncomfortable moment, and I kick myself for bringing up a time I’m sure we both want to forget.
“I love you,” she more or less growls, looking angry. I love you. It sounds so good. She loves me. I rock my hips, and she sighs, taking my shoulders and pulling me down. And she hugs me. Fiercely. And I consider for a moment that it’s not the memories of last Sunday bothering her, but the women I alluded to. Could she be possessive? The thought thrills me. Unreasonable, maybe, but thrilling. I smile and snuggle deeper, so fucking content.
“How old are you, Jesse?”
What does it matter? I love her. She loves me. End of. I lift and get her in my sights. I’d love to know how old she thinks I am. Right now, probably sixty. Although life has been injected into me again, so perhaps only forty. “I can’t remember,” I say over a pout, feigning thinking.
Mischief is suddenly all I can see in her eyes, and her twitching hand against me is a massive clue as to what comes next. “We were at thirty-three,” she says with too much confidence for a woman who has a huge, obvious tell.
My grin is epic. God, I love that I know her so well. “We should start again.”
“No,” she blurts, horrified, taking things to a sneaky level by nuzzling my cheek, my nose, my neck. “We got to thirty-three.”
Silly girl. “You’re a rubbish liar, baby. I like this game. I think we should start again. I’m eighteen.”
“Eighteen?” she gasps in disbelief.
Frighteningly, eighteen puts me closer to her age than my real fucking age. I feel sick. “Don’t play games with me, Ava.”
“Why won’t you just tell me how old you are?”
“I’m thirty-one.”
She deflates, annoyed. Did she honestly think I’d forget? Every second I’ve spent with this woman is etched on my brain. Bar last Sunday, although those hideous memories are slowly creeping back little by little. “How old are you?” she demands again, like her change in tone might get her somewhere.
“I just told you, I’m thirty-one.”
“It’s just a number,” she says. “If you ask me anything in the future, I won’t answer—not truthfully, anyway.”
What is this crazy talk? “I already know everything I need to know about you,” I fire, and she pouts. “I know how I feel, and nothing you could tell me will make me feel any different. I wish you felt the same.” My past chooses now, this moment, this lovely, blissful reunion, to stomp its way across my memory, and I wince away from it, because I’ve already vowed to protect Ava from hurt, and my past is a sure-fire way to hurt her. So, yeah, she knows everything she needs to know, and that’s the important thing. I love her. I won’t drink. And The Manor is a piece of me that is, in a sense, no longer a piece of me.
“You said before that I might run a mile if I know,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“No, you’re not,” I laugh over the words. It’s not my history of fucking that makes her a flight risk. Jesus. “Ava, you’ve found out the worst about me and not run a mile.” Shameful. Utterly fucking shameful. “Well, you did, but you came back.” I drop my lips to her forehead and close my eyes, mentally punching myself in the face. “Do you honestly think I’m bothered about my age?”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
“Because I like this game.” Or because it’s a distraction from your other secrets, brother? I frown as I burrow into Ava’s neck, hiding as she hugs me, wrapping her limbs around me protectively.
“I don’t,” she retorts softly, and I remain hidden, waiting for Jake to muscle in on my moment some more, waiting for him to tell me that I’m making a mistake. I think I prefer my conscience taunting me. Somehow, with Jake provoking me, it’s harder to ignore.
Because I’m your twin, dickhead. A piece of you.
I clench my eyes closed, willing him to leave me be.
“Are you okay?” Ava asks, as my damp body shakes.
“Yeah,” I whisper, frowning, listening, waiting. I think I really do need to see someone about this. It’s only mildly acceptable that the voice is my twin brother. Or could it simply be the guilt talking? I don’t know, but I’m not so unreasonable to recognize that it’s an issue. “What time is it?” I ask.
I wish I’d kept my mouth shut when Ava starts to break away. “I’ll go check the time.”
“No,” I grunt, wrestling with her squirming form to keep her beneath me, not yet ready to face the world. “I’m comfy. It isn’t that late.”
“I’ll be two seconds.”
I huff my displeasure, grimacing as my cock slides free of her, and slump to my back, as Ava saunters off across the bedroom. I prop myself up on my elbows, my eyes nailed to her arse as she goes, until she disappears out of the door. I grin, wriggling up the bed to prop myself up against the headboard, glancing around our bedroom. Home. It feels right again. Ava here, in our bed, in our kitchen.