Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Under the hot spray of the shower, he washes me. His hands move over my body, lathering me up, and nothing about it is rushed or a tease.
He kneads his fingers along my shoulders as I lean against the wall.
It feels incredible.
And I want this so much that it’s pushing me nearly to my breaking point.
When does it end?
When do you leave, and I have to learn to be lonely again?
His hands run along my back, down to my ass, and he wraps his arms around me from behind to tug me close, and I can’t help but feel the whole weight of the truth heavy on my chest.
I love this.
I love every part of being physical with him.
I love his scent, his hair, his fucking eyes, and I love every goddamn thing he does with his hands.
I feel safe with him.
Not just from the actual, imminent danger my life is in right now, but from everything.
I hold it all back. I stay silent during the shower, because I wouldn’t know what to say without being a complete fucking mess again anyway, and I know I’ll either end up crying, or screaming so hard I’ll lose my voice, or coming in his hand while my entire body shakes for him.
After we dry off, I’m prepared for him to head back to his room.
And instead, he joins me in mine.
Wordlessly, I get in my bed, and then he slides in next to me, under the covers.
And if my heart could beat out of my chest, it would already be gone by now.
I can’t say anything.
Don’t get used to it, I tell myself as Torin wraps his arms around me from behind in bed.
Wanting things never leads to anything good.
But he sneaks into my bedroom the next night, too.
Very late, after everyone has gone to sleep, and I’ve already convinced myself there was no chance he was going to come.
He shows up already rock hard, slipping into my room in the dark and joining me in bed. He tells me he was going to jerk off and go to sleep, but that he couldn’t bear the idea of me going to bed without giving me his cum.
The night after that, he doesn’t even bother making a stop at his own room.
We both walk upstairs after hanging at the fire pit with the other guys, and Torin just follows me, as if we both know where we are going to end up.
He fucks me hard.
Really hard, up against my dresser drawers, and it’s definitely my fault because I’m the one who turned around and told him I needed him to hurt me tonight.
And fuck, he knows how to deliver.
A couple of books fall over onto the floor with a heavy thud. Torin has every inch of his cock pushed deep in my ass and then a second later, I have to shout toward the hallway that everything’s fine when Roman knocks and asks if I’m okay through the door.
Torin uses my ass and tells me that it’s exactly where his cock belongs.
When he comes, he breathes my name into my ear, and it settles through me, so low and deep and all-consuming in a way that almost single-handedly destroys me.
He cradles my body after he makes me come.
And that undeniable fact settles in my blood like the darkest secret I’ve ever had, something I have to keep trapped far below any other bad decision I’ve made in my life: I want this. I want all of it, and I don’t want it to stop.
We wake up at 3 a.m. that night and fuck again.
Because if his cock is right there behind me and it feels that good, what the hell else am I supposed to do other than rut up against him?
And when he whispers good boy against my neck when I’m half-asleep, how could I ever deny that I’m starting to love every fucking thing this man does to me, and I could probably love it forever?
It’s like when a double whiskey on the rocks hits the ice, cracks, and goes down smooth and cold, the first drink of the night.
But better.
Because I don’t feel like absolute shit the next day. I feel like I’m walking on electric air.
You quit the liquor.
You can quit him later, too.
But then there are the texts.
Periodically, throughout the day, he starts sending me pictures of old, vintage bookstores.
Secondhand stores, too, with beautiful book sections.
He sends pictures of old cafes inside them, and even links me to a website I’d never seen before that collects photos of long-dead bookstores and shows what was on their shelves.
Stepbrother Psychotic: God, these are so fucking sick. Imagine if you did the cafe like the one with the wooden beams on the ceiling?
It’s gorgeous.
We could do it. Well. I’d do the woodwork, you take care of the matcha lattes.