Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
On those nights, the ones without Elliot and with a full roster starting at sunrise, I woke often. Despite pharmaceuticals or the help of alcohol. I woke up frequently, in a cold sweat, an overloading, gut-wrenching panic on my chest, fearing that I wouldn’t be able to get myself out of my mess.
On the nights with Elliot, not once did I wake. Unless he woke me. With his mouth. Or his cock. And on those nights, I dove right back into dreamland when he finished with me.
“Coffee,” Elliot murmured against my neck, his stubble brushing against my bare skin.
“Coffee,” I hummed. My head had a slight throb to it thanks to those martinis, but nothing caffeine wouldn’t nip in the bud.
Elliot pulled my naked body back into his, his hand brushing over my navel before plunging right between my legs.
I threw my head back into the crook of his neck, inhaling in rapture at the way his fingers worked me.
“Not before I make you come,” he growled in my ear.
“You’ll hear no argument from me,” I rasped, tumbling into the addictive limbo that was Elliot’s touch.
Nothing else in the world existed.
We had coffee and breakfast on the balcony, sipping and eating with a quiet contentment that should’ve only been established after years together.
Yet like everything with Elliot, it felt natural. Sitting wordlessly on a balcony without a device in my hand or at my ear was not natural for me. My spine tingled with the need to be hunched over a laptop, doing something, but I resisted the urge, glancing over to Elliot’s relaxed posture, trying to mimic it.
Once I’d let myself take a few slow and measured breaths, I’d actually kind of enjoyed it. Not something I’d do every day. But I knew we weren’t going to be there, on that balcony, in that hotel, away from the world. I was free to be the version of myself I knew I could never sustain.
Elliot didn’t mention leaving the room, didn’t display any kind of urgency as the morning grew late. He didn’t stop me when I called to extend the reservation to another night.
We didn’t overtly speak about the arguable ridiculousness of staying at a hotel less than forty minutes away from the town we both currently resided in. He seemed to understand that I couldn’t go back there yet, and was not only willing to stay with me, no questions asked, he acted as if such a thing was normal.
We ate room service. We fucked. We watched old reruns of TV shows. It was the best day of my life.
Elliot didn’t push me, didn’t order me to do anything that wasn’t sexual. But there came a point when even his stamina found its limit. And I’d grown bored of TV and avoiding the elephant in the room.
I hadn’t gone as crazy as actually deciding to tell him the full truth and nothing but the truth, but I needed to release the pressure I was feeling at the base of my skull that had nothing to do with my hangover.
We were perched on the sofa, TV still running, me wearing his tee and panties, him in nothing but boxers. Without even trying, he looked like he could be selling underwear on a billboard in Times Square. Not for the first time, I marveled at his rugged beauty. The ease in which he carried himself. Everything about him was captivating. Soft and hard at the same time. Masculine yet nurturing.
He deserved answers. He certainly didn’t deserve to be shot at in his backyard because of who he chose to warm his bed.
“I’ve often wondered why I’m like this,” I said, looking out the window. The sea was calm today. The ocean inside of me was raging.
“I come from a disgustingly normal family.” I gripped the stem of my glass and kept watching the sea. “Not perfect, no one is. My parents have gone through rough patches, there have been money problems, fights.” I waved my hand dismissively, even though some of those fights were cemented in my memory.
My parents had made an effort to keep us out of their relationship. Rowan and Kendra were younger than me, not by much, but young enough to be asleep on the rare occasions when my parents raised their voices. That or they were distracted on the even rarer occasions when they fought while we were awake.
But I stayed up late, was not easily distracted, and was hyperaware of anything that could disrupt the peace in our lives. Something in me, even then, was bracing, waiting for impact. I took on every fight as a harbinger of divorce, an omen of destruction that never came.
“Nothing insurmountable, nothing unforgivable,” I told Elliot, now old enough to understand that the fights my parents had were nothing but releases of pressure in a happy and healthy marriage. “There was love in our house, we were accepted for exactly who we were. No one set impossible standards for us. Yet I came out setting them for myself. Constantly pushing myself, knowing that I was going somewhere different.” I turned to look at Elliot.