Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
“That’s not true. It will never be true again.”
“I need to just go back to Denver, Eric. It’s just,” my voice cracks, “it’s the right thing for me to do.”
“I will not let you go back there, not now. It’s not safe.”
“I’m not an obligation.”
“This is your home. With me. We talked about this.”
“Your apartment. You said that intentionally with purpose and don’t tell me you didn’t.”
“I was angry. It was a really shitty thing for me to do.”
“Yes. Yes, it was. Because that kind of cut is not only deep, it bleeds bright red and leaves a stain that never washes away. And just to be clear, it’s not your bloodline that scares me, Eric. I lost my father, the only person who has ever really been there for me. I had to get past that and stand on my own, fight on my own. I’m terrified of leaning on you, losing you, and having to reteach myself that. I know you don’t understand and—”
He scoops me to him, and cups my head, his mouth closing down on mine, and I try to resist, I try so hard to protect myself for the lure of this man, and the pain he will bring me, but I am weak. The instant that his tongue touches mine, I melt for him. He can destroy me, that is clear, and I’m helpless to stop it from happening.
Chapter one hundred eight
Harper
Kissing Eric leaves me weak in the knees and panting, his body a shelter I both crave and fear, because that shelter no longer feels stable and strong. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice roughened up by emotion, laced with regret. “I’m really fucking sorry. Stay with me, Harper,”
I hear the plea and torment in his voice, feel the burn for him in every part of me, inside and out, I do, and it matters to me, but I feel the same things I did before he kissed me. And I worry that we’re now hurting each other. And neither of us need that.
“I can’t do this like this, Eric. I can’t. I’m not in the right headspace to be treated like a houseguest. I can’t do it. I just can’t.” I try to pull away from him, and he holds me steady, and my fist balls on his chest, my head tilting down in utter frustration and defeat. He catches my face and drags my gaze back to his. “I’m not in a good place. You know that.”
“When we start tearing each other down, we’re not in the right place together.”
“This wasn’t me tearing you down.”
“It sure as hell feels like it, Eric.”
Tension ripples along his jawline and settles in his voice. “I’m coming out of my skin right now. My mind is going crazy.”
“I get that and why, too, but we’re standing on a ledge together, and you’re pushing me off when you should be holding onto me. Fight with me, fuck me, but don’t be cruel.”
“And what if you can’t handle how I would fuck right now?” he demands, and I don’t miss the challenge deep in his voice, or the instant crackles in the air between us.
The words pierce my already wounded heart. “I’ll assume I can’t since you already do. I’m going back to Denver,” I say and my voice is remarkably calm when I’m quaking inside. I try to pull away from him, but frustratingly he continues to hold on and his mixed messages are torture. “Stop holding me here. I’m giving you what we both know you want.”
“I asked what if, Harper.”
“Which was spoken with the same intent you said ‘your apartment.’ To hurt me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. Damn it, woman. I would never—”
“You don’t even want to fuck me. Apparently, I’m too vanilla. I’m going back to my home, which is Denver.”
“Home is here, with me and you are not even close to too vanilla for me. The answer to ‘what if you can’t?’ should have been ‘what if I can?’ What if I can handle it? Because I need you, Harper. I need you like I have never needed in my life.” His words are a deep, guttural confession. He needs me. I need him, too.
I breath out a shaky breath. “Why are we doing this to each other?”
“I did it,” he confesses. “I’m fucked in the head right now. I hate him but I don’t want him to die. He would probably feel relief if I was gone.”
“I don’t think he would. And you can’t go anywhere. You’d take me with you because I’d never survive it.”
His hand slides up my back, fingers splaying between my shoulder blades, his breath warm on my cheek. “You can’t be with me and not give me everything. When I get like this—”
“I know,” I say, aware that we are talking about those darker desires he’s alluded to in the past. “I’m not afraid of anything with you.”