Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 225(@200wpm)___ 180(@250wpm)___ 150(@300wpm)
I wanted to learn on the job, to make my own way, like Adam did.
My brother—the man I think about betraying every time I imagine me and Bryson.
Tiffany gapes at me.
We met in high school and have been best friends ever since. She dresses in an artsy way and loves to pull her hair up into complicated weaves.
When she gestures, her billowing sleeves shift around.
“So, he just grabbed your leg?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “And then stared at me. Before I knew it, it was over.”
“I don’t think you imagined it. It’s not like you’ve got a history of having hyper-realistic visions, is it? It happened.”
I squeeze my hands together tightly. Even now, hours later, I’m still reliving the moment, playing it in slow motion, the way he leaned across, the closeness of his face, leaning away…
Then his hand claimed my thigh, squeezing harder as I let out one moan and then another.
“He was staring at me like he wanted to go all the way,” I murmur.
“Which is what you want.”
“It’s different now if it’s an option. I don’t know anything about his dating life. What if he does this all the time, touches younger women, sleeps with them, then moves on? I don’t think I could handle that. And there’s Adam… we can’t do that to Adam.”
Tiffany sighs.
“What?” I ask.
She opens her mouth, closes it, then seems to come to a decision. “I know how badly you want this with Bryson, but I think you should slow down. That was a pretty douchey move, at the end, acting like nothing happened.”
“He probably regretted it immediately. He looked at me and thought, ‘Am I really going to stoop that low?’”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Tiffany replies. “I bet it wasn’t that. It was probably about Adam. He doesn’t want to hurt him when they’re becoming friends again.”
“It’s not like any of this matters,” I say. “He’ll be back on the West Coast soon.”
We say nothing, then Tiffany mutters, “You need to be careful after what Adam’s been through.”
“I know,” I say, thinking of Eva, of every wonderful bright moment.
“And,” Tiffany goes on, “remember, you know nothing about Bryson’s romantic life. I know you’ve had the mother of all crushes.”
“I’m obsessed. It’s okay. You can say it.”
“Fine.” Tiffany grins. “But what if you’re right? He could do this often, with lots of women. You’d go into the situation thinking it would be one thing—fulfilling your crush, getting a real relationship, a future, all that stuff I know you want—and all he might want is a quick fling.”
“I’ve thought about that,” I reply. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Worse than that, what if I go all the way with him, and it’s everything I’ve dreamed of? Then he finds another woman, one he wants to marry, have a family with, and I’m left on the sidelines, watching a life that could’ve been mine.”
“If he’s that sort of man, would you even want him?”
I’ll always want him.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “I know I shouldn’t, if he’s a playboy, touching every woman’s leg he can, taking sick chances like hitting on his best friend’s sister on the day of Eva’s funeral.”
“In what sense isn’t that sick?”
I look at Tiffany steadily. “If he wants the same thing I do. Suppose he wants the real thing, not just a fling. If I’m the only one he wants.”
Tiffany tilts her head sympathetically, and I can tell she’s worrying about me. “If he just wanted sex, would you do it?”
“No,” I say right away. “I want more than that from him. Anyway, I’m not sure I would be able to…”
Tiffany nods at me—not saying yes, not saying no. She knows what I’m talking about.
“I think you need more information,” Tiffany says. “You need to spend more time with him.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter. “Anyway, I can’t. It’s too cruel for Adam. It’s too mean. I need to put him first.”
“I wish there was something I could say to make this uncomplicated.”
“Me too,” I reply, “but just talking about it is enough. Thanks, Tiff.”
Late that night, lying in bed, I tell myself not to do it.
I warn my hand not to slide down my body—a body I struggle to imagine Bryson wanting—as I replay the moment in the car. Even as I warn myself against it, I can’t stop, my hand slipping down my panties and rubbing gently at my clit.
In my mind, he didn’t remove his hand in the car. Instead, he leaned close and kissed me passionately, like he owned me.
“I’m taking you upstairs.”
In real life, nerves would flurry, telling me I’m not good enough, telling me there’s no way I can do this.
As I rub my clit, I become somebody else, dragging my fingernails down his back, over his muscled body, feeling his firmness.
“I’m getting you soaked for me.”