Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
It’s been six months. She never replied to my emails, never responded to my texts. Just vanished, like a ghost. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with her name on my tongue, like a goddamn curse, and I have to get up and write until my hand cramps to make the need go away.
The MC—some bookish undergrad with a voice like a dying dove—gets up to introduce me. I barely listen. She calls me “the king of the modern thriller, now making a shocking pivot to the world of contemporary romance.” There’s a low wave of laughter, the kind that says “We know this is weird, but we’re here for it.” I flex my hand around the hardcover, feel the stiffness in my thumb where I dislocated it in college.
The applause is sudden, loud, unexpected. For a second I forget why I’m even here. Then I remember: this was supposed to be for Kat. A love letter she’d actually read.
I take the stage. The lights aren’t stage lights, just warm bulbs in metal cages, but it’s enough to make my vision swim. I blink into the crowd, force a smile, and say, “Thanks for coming out. I’m Talon McKnight, and I’ll try not to bore you.”
A smattering of laughs, a few wolf whistles from the far corner. I start to read.
It’s the chapter where “Kit”—yeah, real fucking subtle—first meets the professor. I know that most book readings don’t include X-rated content, but I don’t care because these are some of my most vivid memories of Kat. The lines are sharp, merciless, every word lifted straight from the memory of Kat’s lips on my cock, the way her eyes went big and soft the first time I spanked her. I read the first paragraph, voice steady, then the second. And just as I start the line, “She felt the heat from his stare long before she realized she’d stopped breathing,” the door to the store opens.
And there she is.
Six months, and she still floors me. Kat walks in like she owns the place—hair down, wild and golden, her body poured into a dress that’s technically modest but does nothing to hide her tits or the curve of her hips. She stands at the back for a second, scanning for a seat, then melts into the shadow by the windows, arms folded over her chest. She doesn’t look at me, not directly, but the heat from her gaze hits me harder than any spotlight.
I lose the line. Fuck. I cover by flipping to the next page and reading the next sentence, but my voice is suddenly rough, throat gone dry as a bone. I can feel myself flushing under my deep tan, which is fucking humiliating, but I don’t care. I want her to see it. I want her to know that I’m still a mess for her, that none of this—none of these people, this book, this whole “redemption arc” the publisher begged for—means jack shit if she won’t even look at me.
My heart is pounding. Blood is rushing south. I’m half-hard, and I’m pretty sure the front row can see it through my pants, because one of the girls in the second row is giggling behind her hand. I want to laugh. I want to scream.
But mostly I just want Kat.
I keep reading. The words blur together. My hands are steady, but my brain is a fucking mess. Every paragraph is an homage: the way Kat moaned when I tied her up, the way she bit her lip when I called her “Kitten,” the way she sobbed when I broke her heart. I get to the part where the professor tells “Angel” that she’s his, that he’ll ruin her for anyone else. I don’t need the text. I know it by heart.
I lift my eyes from the page. Look straight at her.
The golden girl’s standing now, at the back of the room, arms still crossed, hair a wild halo around her face. There’s a smile, barely, at the corner of her mouth. She’s not moving, not leaving. I realize she’s waiting for me to finish.
So I finish. I read the line: “She wanted him to ruin her, to make her into something only he could recognize.”
The room is dead silent. For a second, I forget the crowd, the store, even the air in my lungs. It’s just me and Kat, two people staring each other down, emotion thundering between us.
Then the applause starts. It’s polite, then gets louder. I force a grin, say, “Thanks. I’ll be signing books up here. If anyone wants to talk, come say hi.”
The host hustles up, thanks me, and people start lining up, books in hand. I keep my eyes on Kat, but she’s turned away, talking to a another girl with blonde hair and glasses. For a moment I think she’ll leave, but she stays by the window, just far enough to be out of reach.