Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
I’d donated it all, except a sum that I’d calculated I’d need and for Violet’s college fund.
Everyone had thought I was crazy for refusing the donating and assets. Everyone had tried to talk me out of it.
I’d held firm, something that was new to me but that I’d enjoyed. I’d lived a life of excess and been miserable. Been damn near suicidal. I did not want money to keep me in a lifestyle to which I had been accustomed.
Just the thought of that lifestyle made me sick.
Instead, I liquified all of his investments and donated all of the cash to various domestic violence charities, to women’s shelters, to paying legal fees for women trying to divorce abusive husbands.
The house was trickier, though.
I certainly didn’t want my name on a house that had been a prison for years. Macy suggested I sell it, take the money. I’d considered that, but for better or for worse, Violet grew up in that house. She had wonderful memories there. She deserved the option to go home there, if she wished.
I nurtured a hope that she would want to come home, here, to New Mexico. Of course, she had to go back to school. She was going to Brown. Brown. I was exceptionally proud of her. But it was just so far.
I itched to be close to her. Close enough to drive and take her out for dinner, go shopping. But this was my home now. And my precious girl was turning into a woman.
Planes existed. I could and would visit her whenever I wanted.
I’d make it work.
Somehow.
Although the logistics of Violet’s homecoming had been on my mind for some time now, it was not what kept me up.
It was the couch.
The purple couch that Hansen had teased Macy about. The purple couch that I just happened to love.
It was a couch that currently had a six-foot, hulking biker sleeping on it. The biker who had been sleeping on it ever since I moved in here. Ever since he decided we were going to take it slow.
That we were going to be fucking friends.
He still slept in this house every night. He was still with me every free moment he had. If I went anywhere with him, it was on the back of his bike. My body pressed against his, the Harley vibrating between my legs… It was pure torture. From the pained look on his face every time we got off, it wasn’t just torture for me.
Yeah, he was going near mad with need too. But he’d held fast in this friends bullshit. And I was too stubborn, too hurt, too freaking confused to try and seduce him, argue against this.
Well, until that very moment.
Three weeks.
Three fricking weeks.
My body had almost completely healed. There were still some stubborn bruises, a thin, red scar on my stomach that would hopefully fade, still some aches and pains, but I was back to normal.
I was even back at the café, although Swiss had tried to argue against me going back too soon. I’d argued back, passionately. He’d had a weird look in his eyes, one that made my thighs clench and my stomach dip. His face had lingered close to mine. I’d held my breath, near salivating with need. Then he’d muttered about, “Going on a ride,” and left.
Turned around and left.
I’d been pissed off. And horny. So I’d used the vibrator that Freya got me as a gift after I’d spent a night ranting about Swiss and the bullshit ‘friends’ arrangement.
It was the first time I’d used it because before that, I’d held out. I was uncomfortable about orgasming without Swiss. About using a vibrator in the first place. I wasn’t in tune with my body like that.
But I’d gotten mad enough to get in tune.
And it was great. Really freaking great. It had nothing on what Swiss and I had, but it was different. It was erotic because I was the one in control. It wasn’t about a man. Wasn’t about someone else’s pleasure. It was something deeply personal and intimate.
Swiss had come back an hour later, took one look at me, and let out a low growl in the back of his throat. “You’re trying to fuckin’ kill me,” he ground out. Then he left again. For two more hours.
Needless to say, he knew me well enough to know what I looked like after I’d come.
That was two days ago.
And we’d barely seen each other in that time. Swiss was creating distance.
And I was over it.
I was pissed off.
I was lonely in a bed that he was supposed to be in.
I was horny.
Sure, I could’ve used the amazing little device in the nightstand, but I didn’t want to. I shouldn’t need to. There was a six-foot something biker on my sofa who I knew could make me tremble in need, who could make me leave this freaking world. And he wasn’t doing that because of some stupid idea he had in his head.