Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Her laugh dissolves the tension in her shoulders. "I can cross that off the list."
"But what about slut for my cock?"
Her eyes light up with her smile. "I'll consider it."
"Could put it in your next—what do you write anyway?"
"Uh-uh. We're not talking about that."
"You'd rather talk about which degrading things you'd like to be called?"
"How about which… non-degrading things I'd like to be called?"
"I swear to fucking God," a loud voice interrupts us. "I did not just hear the words 'cum-slut.'" Oliver steps into the staircase. Looks down at us. "When did you get in?"
"Half an hour, maybe." Daisy nods hey. "We made tea. But, we drank it."
He laughs. "I'm good, thanks." He moves down the stairs.
She turns to me. "We can pick this up later."
I nod yeah even though I know the conversation is going to kill me.
Chapter Sixteen
Daisy
I cross and uncross my legs. Wrap my fingers around my chai latte. Take a long sip.
It's good. Sweet, spicy, robust. But it's not as good as the one Holden made.
He knows the steps by heart. Knows how to close his eyes and feel it. I guess that shouldn't be surprising. That's basically Holden.
My lipstick stains the mug. Pink on white. They fit. Two light colors. Ones that fade into the background.
I shouldn't complain about fair skin and blond hair. Yes, the whole I burn if a ray of sun touches me thing is troubling. As is increased melanoma risk. But there are plenty of advantages to my complexion.
Guys go apeshit for blondes. Especially for natural blondes. Luna's always been a knockout with plenty of male attention. But when she went platinum?
She's swimming in men. Not that it's a good thing. Half the guys are assholes. They're more aggressive. I guess that nearly white hair is a homing beacon. Light bounces off her beautiful locks. Makes her even more luminous.
She's just like that. So bright her darkness looks even darker. Or maybe her darkness is so dark her brightness looks even lighter.
She's been through a lot of shit. A lot of shit that made her disconnect, write off intimate attachments to men, push away anyone who hurt her.
But she's not always hard angles. She's soft with me. Sweet. Caring even.
And she's Luna. She's upstairs, blow drying her hair (she had to redo her toner, so it would stay silver-blond. She's not shy about discussing the great effort that goes into staying platinum. Sun, salt water, and chlorine are all her enemy).
I can't complain. She spent an hour fixing my hair and makeup. If she'd left me to fend for myself, she'd already be ready—the girl is a pro with makeup and a curling wand.
She did a great job too. I look beautiful. And like me. Like some version of me who's ready to dance with a handsome stranger.
Or at least leave my pink lipstick on a cocktail glass.
Not, a, uh…
Ahem.
I take another sip of chai. Close my eyes. Let thoughts of Holden fill my head.
He and Oliver are in the kitchen, fixing cocktails, laughing over something. They're always laughing. It's the only time Oliver is all smiles, actually.
I can't say I blame him.
There's something about the trouble making tattoo artist. He's just—
His laugh bounces around the room. It's different than my brother's. Light. Easy.
Full. So full it might burst.
I picture him next to me, looking up at me with those bright eyes, running his fingers over my hand. Then up my arm, along my shoulder, over the neckline of my dress.
Beneath it.
Fuck, I—
I hooked up with guys before my eating disorder took over. Freshman and sophomore year. When I still believed I could feel good. That my body was imperfect but worthy of pleasure. Before I realized I could seize control of my fucked-up life by controlling what I consumed.
My memories are fuzzy.
A kiss during a game of Truth or Dare.
A close dance at homecoming.
A make-out session on the couch, at a friend's party. Hands under my dress. The heat of fabric against my skin. The feeling of other people watching. The danger of getting caught.
The taste of rum and coke. Cold hands on my skin. Hardness between my thighs. Soft lips on my neck.
I always win games of Never Have I Ever. I've only been to second base. I'm so inexperienced I call it second base.
And that was all before.
I'm a different person now.
Sure, I'm not plagued by that same need to control everything that goes into my body. To prove my worth by eating less. By seeing smaller numbers on the scale. By shrinking.
I'm not in the throes anymore.
But I'm not brimming with self-worth. Or self-acceptance. Or love.
I'm okay.
Just okay.
Always okay.
Not like Holden, with his hearty laugh and his bright eyes and his lust for making strangers come.
My sex clenches at the thought of his hands on my skin. His lips on my lips. His cock between my legs.