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)
It's all I've been thinking about, honestly. Even as I ate a simple dinner with my brother—and Luna and Holden. As I touched myself in the shower. As I dressed. Chatted all through Luna fixing my hair and makeup.
This tea makes me think of him. The sweetness of cinnamon. Do his lips still taste like the spice?
God, I want to know.
I want to know everything.
"Hey." Holden's voice flows into my ears. His footsteps move closer.
My eyes flutter open.
"You look good." He gives me a slow once-over. Does nothing to hide his interest.
"Thanks."
"New dress?" He offers his hand. Motions let's go.
I motion to my chai. Almost done. "It is."
"Looks good. Short." His gaze flits to my thighs for a second, then it's back on my eyes. "Gonna irritate the fuck out of Oliver."
"Oliver can go fuck himself."
Holden chuckles. "Have you ever told him that?"
"Not in so many words."
"Have you ever told anyone to go fuck themselves?"
I shake my head.
"They might do it."
"Oh?"
"If you told me, I'd promise to do it."
My cheeks flush.
"Maybe offer to send you a picture. If you were interested." He sits next to me. "Well, sometime after midnight."
"Right." I wrap my fingers around my mug. Take a long sip. Let out a soft sigh. "It's not as good as yours but—"
"The time difference is fucking with me too." His fingers brush mine as he takes the mug. He takes a greedy sip. Lets out a deep moan. "Fuck, that is good."
"Yeah?"
He nods hell yeah.
"You know, I've heard you say that before. The thing about sending a picture of your ahem solo session. You've said that to Oliver a ton of times."
He chuckles. "Is my material stale?"
"It might be."
He turns his body toward mine. Offers something in his hand. "Got this for you." He places a bar of chocolate in my hands. It's seventy percent. The one I loved at the store.
"Thanks."
"Think it melted in my pocket."
"It was in your pants?"
"That a problem?"
God no. Just tell me how I can become this chocolate bar. I want to get in your pants. Do adults say that? Or does it make it even more obvious I'm a naïve virgin? "No."
"Still have this." He pulls the All You Need is Love and Chocolate card from his back pocket. "Want one for your purse?" He motions to my tiny silver bag.
It complements my tight red dress. Okay, it's actually Luna's tight red dress. An old one that doesn't fit her anymore.
But, hey, it fits me. And it has enough elastic it's comfortable. Comfortable enough it doesn't fill my head with oh God, am I too much thoughts.
And I—
Well, like I said. I'm okay. I'm healthy. But I'm not recovered.
I'm not sure how recovered anyone is, really. Society is diametrically opposed to recovery. Every other ad is for some diet product. Selling some idea that their yogurt, ice cream, cookie, whatever is guilt free. That "normal" dessert should be guilt-inducing.
Or it's an ad for the gym. Something about how people with enough willpower will push through the pain.
A diet product to help women shrink.
They work for men too, but it's always about women making themselves smaller, taking up less space, proving their worth and purity by eschewing things that bring them pleasure.
I understand all of that, intellectually. But I still panic when my jeans are too tight. Or when I can't control what goes on my plate. Or—
God, I'm tired just thinking about it.
I want a night where this isn't in my head. Where I let go.
Where I believe I'm enough.
How does anyone believe that?
I repeat the mantra every day. I have stickers on my mirror, reflecting the message back to me, but it doesn't sink into my head.
Despite the months of therapy, the anti-depressants, the attempts to embrace intuitive eating and body positivity—
It's always there, at the back of my head, this sense that I could get back into control. That I'll lose control if I give in to too many temptations.
"Daisy?" Holden's fingers brush my wrist. "You want one of these?" He holds up the foil packet.
I shake my head. "I have some already." I unzip my purse. Show off the condoms inside. The ones Dad bought me. "Though… you saw my dad hand these over."
He chuckles. "Yeah. He's just worried about you."
"Why is everyone so fixated on my sex life?"
"You don't want me asking?"
"Well…"
"'Cause I can stop. If you don't want my—"
"No, I mean… um… thank you. I will take that, actually." My fingers brush his as I take the condom.
His eyes meet mine.
An electric current passes between us. It's like he's handing me a condom and ordering me to slide it over his cock.
Like he's about to pin me to the bed, slide my panties to my knees, drive deep into me.
Fuck, that's so hot.
He's so—
Ahem. "Thank you." I drop the foil packet in my purse. "That will be—"