Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“I’d kiss you back,” I say just above a whisper. “And I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’m asking you not to kiss me. If I get lost in you, I will lose myself.”
“And that’s bad?” He lifts my chin with his finger.
“It would be tragic.”
He studies me through narrowed eyes for a few seconds before dropping his finger from my chin and shaking his head. “I don’t understand. If it’s just sex, I’m way off because it feels like more than sex.”
“What if it’s not? What if I like how you fuck me, and that’s where it ends?”
I hate that he flinches. And I hate how it sounds because I don’t mean it.
“Then I’ll take you any way I can get you.”
Before I can react or show the slightest sign of refusing him, he kisses me, and I don’t even fight it. We kiss. Anyone can see us from their peephole, an open door, or walking up the stairway. By the time he carries me to his doorway, my shirt hangs around my neck, and he palms my ass with one hand and shoves my bra up over my breasts with his other hand.
Drugs. Only drugs make people this stupid. I need to check into rehab … after one … more … hit.
What’s the best way to redeem oneself after reckless, unprotected sex? More reckless, unprotected sex. He’s deep inside me within seconds of the door closing behind us, and we make it no farther than the sofa.
Clothes half on, half off.
“I’m not sharing you,” he whispers in my ear, a breath before biting the skin along my neck.
I have no desire to be shared. His body moves above mine on the sofa. One of his hands pins both of mine above my head while he drives into me repeatedly. It’s sexy. He’s sexy.
My head lulls to the side as I fight back my orgasm. I don’t want this to end. Eric is the guy.
And then it happens … my gaze focuses on the pile of books atop his coffee table. The Last Person is at the bottom.
I’m at the bottom.
We’re both getting fucked by this man. And I hate that my mind goes there. If I could make it stop, I would. So I close my eyes and focus on him inside of me. It feels good. He smells good and tastes good. Everything is good.
But it’s not!
The. Fucking. Book.
Either books are ruining me for men, or men are ruining me for books. Well, just one man … and one book.
“I … I can’t.” I wriggle.
“What?” he asks with a strained voice as he speeds up his motions, sweat beading along his forehead.
“I said I can’t!” I push at his chest again.
Eric stops and pulls out of me. I fall to the floor and shoot to my feet, piecing myself back together.
“Did I hurt you?” Confusion lines his face as he slides up his briefs and jeans while lifting his pelvis from the sofa.
Yes. He hurt me, just not the way he thinks he did. I don’t look at him. My gaze stays on the book as I thread my arms through my shirt. The human brain is terrible. Thoughts are the worst poison. I’m fucking toxic to myself, and I can’t stop it.
Eric’s gaze tracks mine. “Please tell me this isn’t about the stupid book.” His fingers thread into his hair.
It sucks to be in the “it’s not you, it’s me” rut. Yet, here I am.
“Want to talk about it?” Mom asks after I invite myself to dinner for the third night in a row.
After storming out of Eric’s place, the last thing I need is to run into him. I’m sure he’s bewildered. One minute we’re having great sex, and the next minute I’m shoving him away, throwing on my clothes, and running out the door with nothing more than an “it’s over.”
“I’m having issues with this guy I like.” Squinting against the sun, I sip my glass of wine while we watch Dad turn the chicken on the grill.
Like is the wrong word. On the one hand, my feelings have reached beyond “like,” but on the other hand, he feels like the bane of my existence. I like having sex with him, and I more than like being in his arms or the adoration I feel from him when he does nothing more than smile at me. He’s friendly … says hi to everyone, whether he knows them or not. He likes to read. It’s not that he doesn’t have potential. He does. Just not with me because I’m an incurable, self-destructive, fucked-up bibliophile.
“What issues?”
“Just different tastes in things.”
“He’s not a climber?”
“Ha! No. That’s not it. He climbs, and he’s outstanding. A phenomenal climber. It’s his taste in literature.”
“Literature?”
Gah! It sounds ridiculous, but it’s not. “He joined our book club. We’re reading my pick … my favorite book. And he doesn’t like it at all.”