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I avert my gaze, unseeing, every heartbeat careening toward expiration. I can’t watch or hear or breathe. I don’t want to witness my demise. I don’t want to feel it.
This is what death feels like. The shattering, unstoppable separation between life and the bleeding remains of the soul. There’s no countermeasure. No resuscitation.
I leave the girl who loved a boy with her whole heart. I abandon her there on the side of the road. Let her rot in post mortem.
She thinks her emotions are incognito, but she doesn’t fool me. I see through the standoffish exterior, beneath the wounds and fractures, and deep inside the nucleus of her soul. I know her blueprint. The intricate, complex design of her. My beautiful girl is still in there, kicking and spitting to break free, and I’m going to help her do that. My methods may not be conventional, but I know her better than anyone. I know exactly how to reach her, and I’m highly motivated. I’m fucking starving without her.
She’s so damn feisty she could start an argument in an empty house.
To be on the brink of something so momentous and consequential demands diligence. Impatience is my enemy. Insatiable desire is my weakness.
“If brains were leather, Miles York wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug.”
“You deliberately hurt me, and I’ve been holding that pain for so long.” I clutch my chest. “Right here. Right where I used to hold you.”
“I’m sweatier than a pregnant nun on a Saturday.” “Sweatier than two mice fucking in a wool sock.” I grin. “Sweatier than a cowboy writing a love note.”
From his bed-ruffled brown hair and seductive eyes to his chiseled jawline and brutally fit physique, he has a devastating effect on the ovaries.
Lying there on his back, all stretched out between my thighs, he seems content with just looking at me. He always does that. Always stares at me like I’m the only view in the world.
The tone of his voice is so damn demanding, but that isn’t what moves me. It’s the love in his eyes, assuring me without speaking, protecting me without taking.
