Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“What are you thinking?” I counter.
“I asked first.” He smiles but there’s a nervousness about it I’m not used to with Fisher. What’s he scared of? That I’ll tell him that I want him to stay? That I won’t?
“I’m thinking that I wish AC in cars was never invented,” I say, as we pull up to the parking area by the falls. “I think we should always have to wind our windows down in summer. I think it’s good for the soul or something.”
“Oh, yeah. I agree. Except not if you live in New York City. Then when you’re stuck in traffic on Broadway, an open window is the last thing you need.”
Immediately I start to wonder if he’s saying more than his words. Is he telling me New York City isn’t a place I’d want to go? Or is he saying he doesn’t want to go back and needs a reason to say?
Maybe he’s just thinking he doesn’t want the windows down on a busy street.
He pulls out the cooler from the back of the truck and we head up the falls in thoughtful silence.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask him, as we take a seat on the blue checkered blanket I packed.
“Anything,” he answers.
I hold his gaze as I speak, because I want these words to count. “I was also thinking that I’m really sad you’re leaving. I was thinking how you’ve woken up a part of me I didn’t realize was sleeping. I think you’re a really good man. You’re kind and funny. I’m proud to have known you these last few weeks. Grateful to have called you a friend. And flattered to have had you as my lover.”
He reaches for my face and sweeps his thumb over my cheek. “I wish things were different,” he says. “Not because I’ve regretted these last few weeks, but because things are going to end, and I’m not sure I’m ready.”
A fist tightens around my heart. It’s not just me.
He sighs. “I’ve been trying to think of ways—”
I press a finger over his lips. “Don’t do that.” I shake my head. “Don’t give me hope.”
He takes my hand from his lips and presses a kiss to my palm. “All we have is hope.”
I shake my head. “After you leave, I have to bury every morsel of hope I have that you might come back. I don’t think I can survive any other way.”
“Oh, Juniper,” he says, his voice a mixture of pity and longing.
He presses his lips against mine and I push my tongue against his. I want all of him. Now. I want to take as much as I can get, in the hopes that it will be too much and I’ll wear it out, whatever this is between us. Because it has to be fleeting. It has to run out. I have to get to the end of it. The alternative is way too heartbreaking. If there is no end to what we have. If it were to go on indefinitely, then what I’m giving up is far more than I can cope with. It’s a life I know I’d be forever happy in. A man who’s perfect for me.
It would mean Fisher is the love of my life. And that’s just unacceptable.
Our kisses are urgent and frantic, as we fumble to undress each other and ourselves. When we’re finally naked, he gently guides me to my back and crawls over me. The warmth of the sun still rests in the ground below us. He presses kisses across my collarbones, one after another, like he wants to give me every last kiss he has.
I’ll take them all.
I try and block out the sound of the falls behind us. It’s a constant reminder of where we are and where he’s going to leave. It’s a ticking clock. A countdown to a time without him.
“Fisher, I need—”
He cuts me off. “I know,” he says. He’s not going to make me beg. Not now. He needs this as much as I do. He rolls on a condom and pushes into me. He doesn’t need to check if I’m wet. I always am for him. He just needs to fuck me. We both need this.
He moves in and out, above me, our eyes locked. I want to stay like this forever but my body has other ideas. It’s like he has some kind of manual on how to make my body respond. It’s mental, but it’s also physical. Sometimes when I’m with him, it feels like I’m not in control of the sensations inside my body. Like I’m a vessel for Fisher to do with what he wants.
“You feel so good,” he whispers, as he thrusts into me so deep, the air leaves my lungs. “And I’m going to miss you so much. You feel like home,” he whispers, voice rough as he sinks into me, like he’s trying to memorize the way I feel from the inside out. “And I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk away from that.”