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The nosy bastard doesn’t need to know I buy prescriptions for my neighbors.
like that?”
they just have great chemistry okay chill
probably not every girl likes his kisses
“You wear sandals,” he says to the windshield, “from the clearance aisle in a drugstore. You need money desperately, yet you give it away like it’s nothing.”
“With the money you’ll be earning, you can live more comfortably. Unless you continue to hand it all out.”
“He left me,” I whisper. “Then he died.”
My interest in seeing his private space ranks right up there with my desire to see him naked. But my current frame of mind is on the fragile side of messy. I’m already imagining the countless women he’s paraded in and out of this bachelor pad.
“You stocked your fridge,” I say, running a hand through my tangled hair, “knowing I’d come here?” “Yes.” A devious flicker dances in his eyes.
I moan and hum throughout the meal without a single decipherable word.
in books, they're always like she moaned bc the food was so good
never in my life have I done that or heard anyone do that!
Cole and I fell in love so easily, naturally, perfectly. But I’d be lying if I said our relationship has always been easy. His temper is explosive, his jealousy obnoxious and turbulent on the best days.
Shit, I forgot to put it back on. “Bathroom counter. I took it off to wax my—” “Don’t ever take it off!” His roar echoes off the walls.
“I can’t be halfway across the world thinking about you rubbing your pussy all over another man.”
He proposed two weeks ago, and the day after, he took me to get my labium pierced. The procedure was done by a beautiful woman, of course. Probably one of his old fuck buddies, but I didn’t ask. The past is what the past is. And the future? I’ll deal with that when it comes.
Why does it matter? Trace is a job, not a lover or boyfriend or even a friend.
I’ve gone without sex for three years, and now I’m starving for it. Trace triggered something inside me, something that awakened my libido. But there are a lot of men out there. Plenty of hard long dicks who would be more than willing to give me a night to remember.
“You’re the kind of woman a man marries.”
“I’d bet my casino,” he says, “there isn’t a woman in the world more beautiful than you. I should know. I’ve been surrounded by beautiful women most of my life.”
“A man doesn’t fuck you without wanting more. Without wanting the long haul. But I’m not looking for forever. I’m not going to date you or fuck you or marry you.”
“It’s just not in the cards for us, sweetheart.” His flippancy is needles dragging beneath my skin. “I don’t understand,” I say. “You’re in love with another man.”
Is that true? I’ve come so far in the last two years. I can go days, sometimes a week, without breaking down. And I can talk about him now. About his life. His death. But I can’t remove his ring.
It’s been three months since I spent the night in Trace’s penthouse, and I haven’t been back since. Not because he hasn’t invited me. It’s confusing. The sexual tension that ignites the air whenever we’re together isn’t one-sided. It stretches and fires between us with no relief, no resolution, no budging.
Then I spot him twenty feet away, tucked in the corner of the third bar with a pretty brunette on his lap. He’s staring right at me.
If I’m honest, my reaction isn’t rational. For the past three months, I’ve watched women hang all over Trace. Watched his hand rest on their lower backs. Watched his eyes glimmer when he talks with them,
drinks with them at the bar. He’s a player. We’re not together, not exclusive, not anything. Even though it felt like something only fifteen minutes ago. I guess that’s the dig. Feeling the full brunt of his arousal in the bathroom, knowing he left worked up and fully aroused, and seeing the woman who will be enjoying the release of his sexual tension. The woman he’ll be taking to his bed tonight. Instead of me.
Because I’m stupid. And lonely. And I might be falling for him.
Startled by the direction of my thoughts, I lift my head and press a hand against my racing heart as a violent mix of emotions roils in my gut. I’m falling for Trace.
Through every long drugging stroke of his cock, he stared into my eyes and vowed that he’ll return. That he’ll marry me. That he’ll always love me. His promise for forever. It was goodbye in the rawest, most pleasurable, most harrowing sense of the word.
Access to a satellite phone is limited, and Internet is spotty. It could be months before I hear from him.
The soft scruff on his jaw, the deep chocolate of his eyes, the snake tattoo that coils around his strong neck, and his proud posture clad in black leather and denim.
Most girls dream about the cake, the flowers, the dress. This girl dreams about choreographing the first dance, and it’s going to be the biggest production in the history of wedding dances.
Until the one song I hoped Beyoncé wouldn’t sing echoes through the dome. The song I passionately, painstakingly choreographed for a year. For a first dance that never happened.
If you never take it off again, I’ll be the happiest man on the planet. Cole broke his promise to me. He’s gone. I’m not beholden to the promise I made to him.
I straighten my fingers and slowly inch my hand back, away from the ring. But as the band slides over the first knuckle, Trace lets go. My gaze jumps to his, but he’s already turning, striding back to the car where his driver waits. Teasing and dodging. Connecting and missing. I swing right, and he steps left. I’m over the ballad of Trace Savoy.
The next morning, my sister wakes me at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock with my niece and her husband,
she's relatable lol
“Jesus, Danni. You blew past involved when you stayed the night at his penthouse.”
“I think he’s waiting for you.” “That’s ridiculous. Waiting for what?” Her gaze drops to my engagement ring, and her voice softens. “For you to get over Cole.”
“I can’t keep pretending you aren’t the first thought in my head when I wake and the reason I can’t fall asleep at night.”
“It’s more than that. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.” His fingers tighten against my jaw. “I want all of you.”
AWW
He grabs a water bottle from the fridge and shoves it into my hand. “You can’t love me, because you’re trapped in another life with another man.”
Except… If I turned the tables, if I walked into his penthouse filled with physical reminders of another woman, I wouldn’t like it. My heart sinks. I’d lose my fucking mind.
For Mark the siding guy. Remember him? Turns out the foreveraloner has a foot-long boner. And he’s not afraid to use it!”
oh yeah, what happened to him LOL? I totally forgot about him! he never called her or came the next day
I look like I’m in love. Because I am. I’m in love with Trace Savoy.
He was in and out of my life in ten months. An infinitesimal amount of time for such a lasting impact. His love branded me, left its mark beneath my skin, like swirling colors of ink. I don’t need pictures or an engagement ring to be reminded of the euphoria, the fuzzy whirling dream state that swallowed us in those ten months. I feel his absence in my blood, in my thoughts, every day. Because love doesn’t end with death. It doesn’t shrivel and disintegrate with the ashes. It hovers, follows, haunts the living.
As much as I bitch about Trace being cryptic and impersonal, I’m magnetically drawn to his confidence, his strength. He challenges me, pushes me, and I need that. Because I’m not without shortcomings.
Cole’s charming, animated personality won me over instantly. Contrarily, Trace’s strict, reserved nature makes me appreciate how deeply sensitive he is beneath the suit. All Trace wanted was reassurance that my heart didn’t belong to another man, and I didn’t give him that. If anything, I reinforced his doubts. I really fucked this up.
Because he was right. I have a choice to make. A decision between the past and the future.
I choose the future. I choose Trace. And tonight, I’m going to tell him I love him.
“She’s incredible,” a man says from one of the tables as I slip off the stage. “Unbelievably beautiful.” “I come here just to see her,” another man replies from across the aisle.
Bent over the arm of the couch is a woman with long dark hair, her face pressed against the cushion and her hips skyward, held in place by the man standing behind her. The man I chose. The one I love.
NOOO
The woman stirs, wriggling her hips against him as she lifts her head and brushes the hair from her face. The flawless face of Marlo Vogt.
I feel like my insides are tearing, separating, and bleeding out. Like I’m grieving. Like the day that destroyed my world in the most irrevocable way.
