Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
He’s biting my lip, and squeezing my breast, and my firm hand is moving up and down his shaft at a pretty good clip now.
I can tell it’s turning him on. His breath is labored, as is mine. We’re panting like animals. And I swear, if he would just bump my clit with his hand, or his leg, or anything, really—I would explode.
I have never been this turned on in my entire life.
I squeeze the tip of his cock and he groans, moaning into my mouth. And then he dips his head down, his teeth on my shoulder. He bites me as his come spurts out and drips down the back of my hand.
He breathes heavy for a moment, his face buried in my neck, his taller body hovering over mine. And we pause like this.
I get lost in this. My head is spinning. My pussy is throbbing. I want to grind against him now. I want to take his hand, shove it between my legs, and rub myself with it until I gush.
Just thinking about this is enough to push me to the edge. Five more seconds, and I will come undone.
But then I realize he’s pulled his pants back up, and he takes my soiled hand, and he’s leading me out of the woods.
I’m about to stop him and say, Whoa. Hold on there. What about me?
But I can’t. I can’t say that. And then we’re there. On the outer edge of the trees. And I can see the shingle with Mercer’s name on it peeking up from the almost-hidden stairwell.
A few more steps and we’re on the sidewalk.
A few more seconds and he’s let go of my hand.
And then he’s jogging away.
CHAPTER TWO - LOCKE
The Midnight Ark is a modest farm in southwestern Oregon, but what it lacks in accommodations and facilities it makes up for in beauty. Rows upon rows of purple mounds separated by the greenest green grass you’ve ever seen.
This green is the color of her eyes in the sunlight.
And the scent. Don’t even get me started on the scent.
The moment I get out of my rented Jeep it hits me. Lavender. Before Nova, I don’t think I ever paid a single moment of attention to anything lavender. Not the color, not the flower.
But now she is lavender.
Nova Ryan’s house is small and made of wood. There are three bedrooms, but it’s nothing more than a cottage, really. I’ve been inside plenty of times, so I know that it’s also much more than a cottage. It’s the definition of comfy. Of home. Of… satisfaction.
The barn is also made of wood. No prefabricated buildings here on this farm. It’s cedar, and big, and inside I know there is a distillation room, a little shop, and some stalls for the goats. If you come in the spring, like it is now, you can pet baby goats in there. She uses the milk to make lavender soaps.
Four and a half years ago, Nova Ryan quit her life at the Institute and moved to Forest Park Village, Oregon, to farm.
Mercer laughed at her.
Olsen just looked confused.
But I knew she was serious.
I try not to come visit. I try really hard.
But most of the time I don’t succeed.
I pop up here every three or four months, uninvited, and I stay until she kicks me out.
Sometimes that takes five minutes. Sometimes less. Sometimes she meets me in the parking lot and before I get one foot out of my rental she’s waving her arms and yelling for me to go back where I came from.
When she does that, I leave. But I don’t go home. I’ll book a B&B in town and stick around for a few weeks. Visit all the local wineries and buy lots of handmade things I don’t need. Usually she’ll calm down. It might take several days, but if I am persistent, she typically gives in.
Today, she is not in the parking lot so I have that going for me.
My two-thousand-dollar shoes crunch on the gravel as I make my way over to the split-rail fence that separates the parking lot from the closest field. I pause to take it all in every time I come. It’s just so pretty.
This first field is filled with young plants, so it’s all green and not purple. But further away, there is a sea of purple. All waving in the wind, backlit by the approaching orangey-red sunset surrounded by the ever-present bruised sky.
I’m glad she’s here. I really, really am. She deserves this place. She really, really does.
But I miss her. And I will never stop wanting her.
“It’s a lot prettier than the island, isn’t it?” I turn and look down at the little girl. Her strawberry-blonde hair is just like her mother’s. It’s thin and wispy, the way a four-year-old’s hair usually is. So it blows across her sweet face even in this gentle wind.