Tangled Like Us (Like Us, #4)

by Krista Ritchie

First thing people know about me, I’m tall. Second thing, I’m a twin. Third thing, I’m a pain in your fucking ass.

I possess the unfortunate inability to run away from my own mortification.

Oh God, Thatcher, I’m dripping wet right now. You’ve soaked me like Niagara Falls. Please, please plunge your sinful tongue inside of me.

Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.

I’m not a sad little cub about to be eaten. I’m a motherfucking lion.

Period

Men who are quick to criticize my physical appearance. I’m not pretty enough. Not busty enough. Not full-assed enough. And I have too wide of hips. Too big of a stomach. But after much consideration, I’ve learned to love my body. Because it’s mine and there is only one of me.

The more I love myself, the more I feel a warm, invisible hug wrap around my body.

“You’re meant to be in my arms, Jane.”

I’ve never ached for someone to touch me as terribly as I ache for Thatcher.

I’ve always been extraordinarily curious about why men do that—shed their shirts from the back instead of taking the bottom of the fabric and tugging it up and off. Their way is such an odd method, but it looks extraordinarily sexy. Like they just couldn’t bother with the fabric of a shirt anyway.

I think my heart just came, if hearts could cum. Mine just did.

“You are very big,” I say what’s on my mind. Oh God. My eyes spring back up to catch his. He’s quiet and hard to read. I continue on. “In a very pleasurable way. The best of ways. I love your dick.” I’ll leave it there. It’s a fine endnote.

“So you may have noticed that I have stretch marks,” I say briskly, trying to spit this out. “And I’ve never felt the need to explain them to any of my past friends-with-benefits. They didn’t need to know why I have a freckle on my butt cheek any more than why I have stretch marks on my belly.” I keep going, barely a pause. “But you’re different. I actually care what you think of me.”