Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
He’s drunk.
Blind, rotten drunk.
I’ve only ever seen him like this a couple of times, but never have I seen him with that look on his face.
The broken, hurt expression has my heart twisting.
Is he about to end things?
I don’t understand what’s happening.
He takes a step in, putting the beer down on the dresser. He walks toward me and slowly brings his body down over mine, giving me no option but to lie back on the bed as the scent of whiskey and beer fills my nose. I hold his eyes, struggling to read anything in those green depths. His hand slides up, and he runs his fingers through my hair as he moves it away from my face.
I’m too scared to speak because I’m terrified of what he might say.
His hard body over mine gives me a little glimmer of hope, but there is something in his eyes that makes me feel like my world is about to explode. Whatever happened tonight, changed something inside him. I can see it, I can feel it, and I know him well enough to know he’s fighting against something deep within his soul.
His mouth lowers down, closing over mine, and I let him sink into me, every hard inch of him closing down over my body. My legs spread, letting his hips settle between them, and I kiss him back with a force that I have never used before. It’s desperate, afraid, almost as if I’m clinging to him with everything I have left.
His wicked growl against my lips tells me he likes it.
He likes everything about it.
His mouth slides to my neck, and his cock is hard between my legs, rubbing up and down my pussy that is already soaked for him.
I want to fuck him, God, do I want to fuck him, but the questions racing around in my mind aren’t able to be contained.
“Where were you?” I whisper, my mouth against his ear as he kisses a trail down my neck.
He pauses, his entire body stiffening as he lifts his head to look down at me.
He has two options right now – to tell me the truth, or to lie.
I don’t know which one he’s going to pick.
“Remember the old friend I told you about who died and I visit his parents from time to time?”
His voice is husky, low, full of the kind of emotion I don’t quite understand.
He has told me about that friend, but not much. I know he occasionally goes back and checks in, spending time with the family, but he hasn’t even told me their names. I didn’t think they were overly important to him, if anything he mentioned them in passing comments, as if it wasn’t something to really think about.
Did he do that on purpose, so I wouldn’t question it?
What is he about to tell me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“The police told me one of them died. It was a shock. That’s all. Everything is fine.”
There is something about the way his voice sounds, the way it doesn’t even waver a little, the way his eyes dart slightly to the left when he tells me it’s fine, that gives me every answer I’ve been asking for in the last few hours. I hold my breath, my chest tightening as I study his face and I know, I just know ... he’s lying.
Pain, unlike any I’ve ever felt, rushes through me. He just looked me in the eye and lied to me, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. I don’t even know how I know; I just feel it to my very core. The fact that he is willing to lie about something like that makes me terrified to even imagine what it is he’s covering up.
What he’s hiding from me.
“When is the funeral?”
A bold question, but I’m hoping to catch him off guard.
I could accuse him of lying, but I don’t think that will get me any closer to him telling me what’s really going on.
His eyes flash, and he shrugs, rolling off me.
“No idea.”
We both lie in the silence, neither of us saying a word, but it’s as if we’re both fully aware the other person knows. He knows that I think he’s lying, and I know he’s lying, yet neither of us are coming right out and saying it. Darkness and fear hang in the air as the whirring of the fan mixes with my deep, ragged breaths.
I don’t know what to do.
“Got to go away for a week or so, deal with it,” he murmurs.
Those words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, but I’ve never been the kind of girl to beg. I’ve grown up in a world where begging gets you nowhere, and neither do tears. Instead, I take a deep, shaky breath and whisper, “Okay.”