Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35197 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35197 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
“July,” she whispers.
There goes my heart, booming again. I like when she whispers. I like feeling like we’re in bed, sharing secrets. I like…her. A lot. “Your name is July?”
“Yes.”
“Were you born in July?”
“No. August first. But I was due on July twenty-seventh and by then, my mother had already fallen in love with the name, so…”
Another first in four years? The urge to laugh. Holy shit.
I want this girl in my lap. Want to smuggle her out of here like stolen diamonds.
She’s bringing my body back to life.
More than my body. I’m not locked in numbness like I was this morning.
Like I’ve been for months since coming home.
“I don’t know if you’re m-my speed,” she whispers, but her gaze betrays her words, slipping down to the rough curve of my bicep, my throat, eventually taking a prolonged peek at my mouth. Is she attracted to me? “Going on this date alone was a big step for me, you know?” she finishes.
“I understand.” I look around, noticing the crowd has thinned out slightly. “It’s a big step for me just being in this coffee shop.”
That catches her attention, her expression turning inquisitive. “What do you mean?”
Despite urging from my friends, I haven’t spoken about my experience as a POW. It’s hard enough to have the horror inside of me, but harder still to watch that horror dawn on the faces of other people really brings home the gravity of what I survived. I find myself wanting to tell this girl, though. It almost feels inevitable. She’s supposed to know everything about me.
“I was held in an enemy camp for four years. A prisoner of war.” Across the table, her lips part on an intake of breath. “I saw nothing but the walls of my cell and the faces of my captors for so long, this coffee shop feels like a figment of my imagination. It doesn’t seem like real life. Nothing does.”
“Four years?” she whispers
I hum a confirmation. “I wish I could go back into the darkness and tell myself if just survived the torture a little longer, I’d eventually find myself sitting across from an angel in glasses. Might have given me something to hang on for when I’d forgotten how to hope.” Damn. My gut is beginning to churn, my skin going clammy, just talking about my time in the camp. It’s getting hard to draw a breath. “Never mind, I don’t want to go back into the darkness. I want to stay right here—”
My words cut off abruptly when she reaches across the table and lays a hand on my forearm, her fingertips finding one of my many scars, tracing it lightly. “I’m sorry, Theo,” she murmurs, wetting her lips. “I’m sorry you had to live like that for so long. You must have been incredibly strong to get through that.”
Maybe.
But I’m not strong right now.
My attention is locked on her hand where it connects with my skin. It has been over four years since anyone has touched me without the intention to do harm. Warmth spreads from the place where our skin connects, rolling downward toward my belly, heating my skin like I’m sitting too close to a fireplace. And I can’t help looking at her tits now, small and high and proud in her modest, white V-neck sweater, those mouthwatering handfuls seeming to grow plumper with every breath.
July’s eyes find mine through the forest of her eyelashes, shy and overwhelmed and I know I should draw my arm away, because my neglected body is poised to ruin this. I’m going to take this encounter too far and she’ll run away, refuse to ever see me again. I don’t want that. I need to see her again. As soon as possible.
I need to be in her plans. I need to make her plans.
But I don’t draw away. I soak in her delicate touch like she’s the sunset and this is my last day on earth. Shouldn’t I warn her, though?
“July,” I manage, my tone rocky.
“Yes?”
“I haven’t been touched by a woman in a long time,” I say, in desperate need of adjusting myself, the stiff flesh of my cock crammed up behind my fly, seeking space to grow. To be relieved. “I…think you have to stop.”
“Really? I’m only touching your arm.”
“Please,” I pant.
She starts to remove her hand, but her fingertips linger and she’s curious. Too curious for her own good, apparently. “What if I don’t?”
“I’m going to embarrass myself. Please, I…” I lean forward across the table, devouring the nearness of her mouth, the shape of her nose, eyes, chin. “My body has been through so much pain, it forgot what pleasure feels like. But it started to remember as soon as you sat down in that chair.”
“You haven’t…been with a woman in four years? Not even since you came back?”