Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“You’re breathing hard, Anastasia.”
“Were you touching yourself before?”
“No.”
“Eye twitch, I bet. Look, I haven’t had…” sex in a while. Didn’t want to.
“Haven’t had what?” he asks.
Wait.
I stop and frown as I sit up on the bed and think about my relationship with Donovan. I can point fingers at him all day long, and I have—he pushed me away because of his parents, he was too busy, I had work—but…
Clarity trickles in and I gasp. It was me too. I helped dig our grave. Since the summer at his parents’ place, I avoided sex, recoiled from intimacy, took extra shifts, spent more time studying. I never protested when he drove to Atlanta to see his family on the weekends, never protested when he spent time with the frat, never confided about Bryson, didn’t tell him about Harvard until I had to, and deep down I dreaded the idea of spending the holidays with his family or him.
Yet he was that little piece of security I didn’t want to let go of. I loved the frat house, the home it represented…
“I…” My voice trails off.
“What?”
I don’t want to say Donovan’s name. It’s a wall between us, and River—he’s slowly stacking more bricks onto it.
“Never mind.”
“Were you thinking about Donovan?”
I bite my lip. “Not like you think.”
“Are you okay? I mean, are you sad?”
Am I sad? I was betrayed by a friend, by a man I thought I might share a future with, so yes. But there’s part of me that feels relief. I know his true colors now.
“It’s a weird kind of feeling, I guess,” I say, toying with the quilt on my bed.
“You miss him.”
My jaw tightens. “Hard to miss him when he did what he did.”
There’s a long silence. “Fine. What’s your fantasy?”
I lean back on the pillows. “Shower sex. I’ve never done it.”
“So. Basic.”
“Shut up.” I laugh.
“Well, tell me already, woman.”
I smile. “He’s taking a shower and doesn’t know I’m there. I get in and get on my knees for him. His hands are on my head, guiding me. He says my name over and over, but he doesn’t come. Not yet. He wants me for that. I’ve never had sex without a condom, but with him, it’s bareback. He picks me up, presses me against the tile. He can’t stop looking at my face. He tells me he’s never wanted anyone like he does me, that I complete him. His irises are a furnace of need. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and I see his. I am his everything.”
His breathing is labored.
“Finish yours,” I say softly.
“She drops the hoodie and watches me take my clothes off. Slow. We stare at each other. I like looking at her. It reminds me of how lucky I am. Finally, we kiss, and I want to go slow, but part of me doesn’t. She comes on my fingers and I steal her gasps with my mouth. Then I go down on her. Then I fuck her. Face to face, my eyes on hers, sweat on our skin—”
I’m panting. “Stop.”
His breath hitches. “You’re right. Too far.”
Not far enough.
I bite my lip and try to ignore the goose bumps on my skin, the heat in my core.
His voice is raspy when it comes. “Have dinner with me.”
I sit up on the bed, body on alert. “Really? Like a…” date?
“We both have to eat, right? Then, we work on the paper.”
“Okay, where? I can meet you there.”
“Paulo’s? It’s a pizza dive on Second Ave?”
“Yeah. Off campus. Mostly townies.” Which means no one will see us.
“Yeah.”
I check the clock. “See you in an hour?”
“It’s a date,” he says as he clicks off.
I stare down at the phone.
I know he didn’t mean it, that it’s a date.
“Freud says slips of the tongue reveal unconscious thoughts,” I murmur to myself as I dash to my closet to find something to wear.
Later, as I’m about to head out, my phone pings with a text.
Ana. I’m sorry, so sorry I hurt you. Can we talk? Can I see you? I don’t want to do this over the phone. Please.
My hands tighten around the cell and I tuck it into my purse. He’s called and texted me on and off since Monday, but still, the humiliation from Friday rears its ugly head.
“No, Donovan. Not now.”
And then I’m out the door.
I’m driving down Highland, about five minutes away from Paulo’s when my phone rings and I glance down, anxious that it’s Donovan, but it’s not.
I see my dad’s name and immediately pull over. They called on my birthday, but it was rushed since I was at work.
“Anastasia!” they both sing into the phone as I answer.
My mom takes over, a smile in her voice. “We miss you!”
“Miss you too,” I say. “It’s late there.”
“Ah, you know us—we’re just getting started,” she says. I hear people in the background, low voices, the soft sounds of music. I picture the house they share in Santorini with a few people. The photos they’ve sent are breathtaking, a small, white-washed, blue-domed villa that overlooks the Aegean Sea with stucco walls and rustic furniture.