More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
I’ve seen movies where they ask people on death row for their choice of a last meal. What do you choose to see though, knowing it might be the last thing your vision ever manifests? How do you know what that one glorious image is when you’ve never seen it before?
I never meant for this to happen, but it did. I’m not a man. Men don’t cry. Men can defend themselves. And I’m not free. Freedom doesn’t hurt this bad.
“The last time she started cleaning, she was here for three days. She bleached my light fixtures! Who does that? Tell me the truth—am I adopted?”
His last two meals were the best I’ve had in ages. Dude can freaking cook. This throws a wrench in my groveling plans though. How hard will I have to kiss his ass to get him to show me his Yoda skills for the blind and keep cheffing it up for me? A man can only humble himself so much in one year.
I don’t care about his past or his situation. He’s the first tolerable human being this agency has sent. He’s not bossy. He left me the hell alone while I sulked the last twenty-four hours, and he can teach me the independence I need. Clapping
“Fool a trash panda once, shame on you,” he mutters, stuffing a purse into the final garbage bag. “Fool a trash panda twice, shame on your Louis Vuitton.”
I don’t even know Riley Davenport, but the thought of disappointing him seems like a failure I’d not recover from. Maybe it’s that light I sense inside him, a light I’ve never known. Some people are just meant to burn bright, and Riley is one of them.
Underneath that veil of dissatisfaction I’ve seen glimpses of, he’s joy personified, a rambunctious kid in a man’s body. It's sad, so damn sad that a man like that loses his vision, a man who seems to appreciate everything. And somewhere across town is a man who doesn’t appreciate anything he sees and leaves the world an uglier place wherever he goes.
This sensation of having another person cling to me as though I’m in control, as though they’re depending on me for a change? Maybe I’m a bit of a narcissist, but it sure as hell feels better than being the one dependent on other people.
It doesn’t seem fair for him to help me if I can’t help him in return somehow.
We can’t let him be put down just because he’s a class drop out. He could be the next dog Einstein.”
“Just because he’s not useful like everyone else doesn’t mean that he has nothing left to offer,” he says, no trace of his effervescence to be found. The rise and fall of his chest, the color in his cheekbones, I know deep inside he’s not talking about Larry.
There may be no proven data, but I’m fascinated to feel the facial structure of this secretive person who’s come into my life and given me hope and entertainment.
I open my mouth to ask what he thinks of me but shut it when I come to my senses. That’s just weird. What do I care if he returns the compliment? Like he said, what does it even matter
This is a test, standing here naked next to my employer who’s only wearing perspiration and a pair of thin gym shorts. It’s a test I’m going to fail because after reliving the innocent face touching in the shower like a pervert, now I’m standing here cupping my junk with no hope of my hands being able to hide what’s happening behind them if he doesn’t get his enticing body out of here in the next ten seconds. I’m going to VRT hell, buck naked with a hard on.
Note to self—lock the door next time. Note to Daniel that I will not admit to Daniel—yeah, he’s hot. Note to Riley—I am absolutely scared, scared of how irresistible you are inside and out.
And if I had to spend the rest of my life on a deserted island with either Val or Harper, I’d choose Harper. Cock or no cock.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. He might not be into guys. It’s weird though, now that the possibility that he is has taken root in my head, I can’t really think of him as straight. Why does that make me…happy?
The more I think on it, all I can come up with is this is my Harper. He can go get his own.
That’s right, glitter man. I’m priority number-one. Roommate El-Supremo. Slinking my arm around his shoulders, I angle my head toward the counter. “Yeah. Thanks. The cheese bites were cold though. They better not make my boyfriend sick.”
Facing the closet, I ask the question I’ve been wondering all week, the one that’s making a pain twist in my chest that feels a lot like jealousy. “Did you love him?”
His hands are warm, grasping onto my shoulders. My spine is stiff as a board, but I realize it’s the first time I haven’t flinched from his contact. It’s a touch I welcome because it’s Riley.
The flinching, the anxiety—he needs to know there’s kindness left in the world. He needs to feel safe. What the hell kind of life is it if you’re afraid of your own shadow?
Maybe he would be into shower droplet tasting. Fuck, the thought makes my cock stir.
It’s Riley. He makes everything okay. I’m not afraid that someone touched me. I’m not afraid that there’s a man in my bed. It has nothing to do with the growing ideas of attraction to him. I think I’ve made a new friend, one that provides something Daniel can’t. Maybe that’s what I really needed all along, someone kind and alone just like me because together, we’re not alone.
If he could stop being so damn wonderful that would really help out with the butterflies he gives me.
Nobody’s more deserving of having one of his romance novel happy endings than him.
I can’t find the words to describe our connection. It’s so strong. There’s a pull whenever he’s around. It’s not energy drinks that has my heart fluttering lately. I haven’t had one in weeks. It’s…it’s him. It’s the way he makes me feel.
With Harper, it’s like I’m addicted to trying to win a prize—his happiness.
How does Harper feel? Is a blind, baseball bat-wielding, motorcycle-riding, cheese-addicted, pain in the ass appealing to him? Fuck. Okay. This novel officially sucks.
“So…prostate stimulation? That’s…that’s really a thing? Like…what does it feel like?” Trying to describe a prostate orgasm to your straight boss-slash-patient should not be among anyone’s job experiences.
His hand was meant to be in mine. It makes sense there. I don’t want it to ever stop making sense.
“I…liked holding your hand,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning my face in a way that tells me that lick of his lips might actually mean what I want it to mean.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, not kissing, but letting his lips brush mine with his words for a beautiful almost-kiss. “I won’t let go next time.”
The tip of a sweet wet tongue, seeking permission, tracing the surface of my lower lip. Delicately, savoring. Whimpers—both his and mine. He’s telling me a secret—his lips were made for kissing. I’ll never tell a soul as long as he doesn’t stop.
He’s…touching his lips, the lips that just kissed me, the lips that I just kissed. He’s touching our kiss, and he’s…smiling.
“A few weeks ago.” “A few weeks ago? And you didn’t tell me?” “I thought…maybe it’d go away.” “Riley, you should have said something! How often does it happen?” I want to laugh at the irony. He was worried about me drowning. The only thing I’m in danger of drowning in is him. Catching my breath, I confess, “Whenever I’m near you. Whenever you touch me.”
Jackbees liked this
“That was a you’re-my-boss-but-I-can’t-help-it-any-longer-kiss. I’m sorry. I know you don’t need me. I was…trying to be a good employee.”
“No, Riley,” he whispers. “Nobody could write you.”
I want him to know this isn’t just lust. I want him to know that whatever emotion is on his face, whichever expression is on mine, I want to see it and want him to see mine.
