Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, and the leather glove feels like burning fire even though he’s not touching me directly.
I shouldn’t have this reaction to his skin on mine.
Or his glove.
I shouldn’t have this reaction to anyone touching me.
He bunches his fingers in my hair and drags my head back, and then his lips brush against mine.
The slightest graze.
Like a promise—or a threat.
His lips are softer than they look and they feel so full and all-consuming. Imploring, dizzying.
And I’m frozen again, my mouth trembling beneath his, and I’m consumed by the sensation.
The pull.
The heat.
I’ve had full-blown sex that didn’t feel as intoxicating as his lips barely touching mine.
No.
I snap out of it and pull back, sliding a palm over my tingling lips. “W-what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Look away from me again and I’ll kiss you. And it’ll escalate to something worse the more you indulge in that distasteful habit.”
“You…wouldn’t.”
“Try me and see how far I’ll go.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
I drop my hand, and his rich brown eyes slide to my lips, darkening, peeling off my outer layer and settling beneath my clothes, my skin, into my bones.
He’s…dangerous.
Because why am I reacting to him this way?
I’ve never been into physical touch or sex. Hell, I’ve avoided it like the plague and only succumbed to peer pressure in college because, apparently, if you keep your virginity after eighteen, society deems you a weirdo, and your classmates give you pitying looks.
The few times I let some frat boys fuck me were a disappointment.
No.
I actually disliked it.
Being exposed, touched intimately, and feeling ugly throughout it all.
I had body dysmorphia, no matter how much they praised me and told me I ‘feel so tight.’
It didn’t help that I had flashbacks of the noises I heard when Mama was being fucked while I was cooped up in the closet.
Whenever I heard the guys breathing heavily on top of me or growling and moaning, I only had flashbacks of the men in Mama’s life.
I even slammed both hands to my ears during the last time I had sex, because I could hear the one man who loved punching my mama and leaving her bleeding after he was done.
Because the guy I was having sex with smelled like him—cheap cologne and strong cigarettes.
I even started humming like I did back then while doodling sketches in my notebook in the near darkness to drown out the sounds.
Needless to say, the guy called me a weirdo for ruining the mood and left as if his ass were on fire.
I just lay in bed, stared at the ceiling, and laughed, but then started crying because that’s what Mama did after they left.
Then I threw up. I usually do after sex, and since I barely find pleasure in it, I stopped it altogether after the “weirdo” episode, choosing not to poke a bear I didn’t need to.
So, as a certified sex avoider, why the hell did my stalker’s lips just now make me feel like that?
I don’t know what that was, but it was different from my usual disgust, and I definitely have no bile gathering in my throat.
“Follow me.” Jude’s words snap me out of my thoughts, and I have no choice but to trudge behind him and toward the house.
He doesn’t have to say the “Or else…” for me to understand that my actions will determine Dahlia’s fate.
While I have little to no regard for my own life, Dahlia is the only person who’s ever cared about me, loved me, and made me feel like I’m important. I’d never let Jude or anyone else hurt her.
Ever.
No matter what I have to go through.
I follow him into the house, my steps careful, and I slide my glasses up my nose.
The air is laced with something clean and expensive, a faint trace of musk and cologne clinging to the walls.
The entrance spills into an open floor plan, warm lighting cascading over polished wood floors leading to an off-white staircase that disappears into darkness.
It’s beautiful but odd.
This isn’t the kind of mansion or penthouse I imagined someone like Jude would live in. Two stories, sleek and modern, like something out of a magazine. Muted grays and blacks, soft ambient lighting that doesn’t feel harsh, and furniture that looks like it belongs in a high-end showroom.
And yet…as I glance around, my chest squeezes with unease.
Something feels off.
The house is too sterile and perfect, like no one really lives here.
Like it was put together with intention but has never actually been touched.
My footsteps are too loud as I trail behind Jude, gripping the straps of my backpack tighter. The thick silence presses against my ribs with each breath.
I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose, but Jude has a way of integrating silence and using it to make me uncomfortable.