Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19580 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
"God, Elise." His hands come up to span my waist. "You're so beautiful."
He pulls me back to him, and the feeling of skin against skin is electric. I grind down against him with more purpose now, the ache between my legs demanding attention. His hands roam my back, my sides, skimming the outer curve of my breasts but not quite touching where I need him to.
I roll my hips in a circle, and his head falls back against the couch, eyes closing briefly. "Fuck," he hisses, hands gripping my hips tighter, controlling my movements now. He guides me into a rhythm that has both of us breathing hard.
All of a sudden, Elias's forehead drops to my shoulder, his breathing ragged.
I freeze, confusion cutting through the haze of my desire. His hands move from my waistband to rest more safely on my hips, and he pulls back to look at me, his eyes still dark with want but now showing something like restraint.
It's like a bucket of ice-cold water over my head.
"Elise…"
"That was practice, right?" I say, the word tasting false on my tongue.
"Yeah, okay. Just practice."
Awkwardly, I climb off his lap, immediately missing the contact and the warmth. I grab my shirt from the floor and pull it back on, using the moment to collect myself. My legs are shaky, my body still humming with unsatisfied need.
I sit beside him again, smoothing my hair, trying to slow my racing heart.
After what feels like an eternity, he clears his throat and nods toward the stack of papers on my desk.
"Is this novel finished?"
"Well, Y-yeah. My latest attempt. Probably not my final, final draft."
"Can I read some?"
"It's not ... Ummm, I mean, it's still rough, and—"
"Please? I'd really like to."
How can I say no when he's looking at me like that? I nod, and he stands, crossing to my desk. He picks up the manuscript with careful hands, like he's handling something from the 1400s. Almost expect to see him blow dust and cobwebs off it.
"Make yourself comfortable," I say, gesturing to the couch as if he has any other place to sit. "It's about 200 pages so far."
He settles back on the couch with the pages, and I busy myself in the kitchen area, making tea. When I return, he's already absorbed, turning pages with focused attention.
I sit on the other end of the couch, sipping my tea and trying not to stare at him as he reads. It's intimate in a different way, watching someone experience my words, my imagination. I see his reactions—the slight widening of his eyes, the way he leans forward, the small smile.
An hour passes, a comfortable silence broken only by the sound of turning pages. I grab a book to distract myself, but find I'm reading the same paragraph over and over, too aware of him beside me.
Finally, he looks up, setting the manuscript down carefully. "Elise, this is really good. Like, really good."
I wave a dismissive hand. "You don't have to—"
"I'm serious. This is publishable. Better than half the horror novels I've read."
I want to ignore it, but a warm glow spreads through my chest. "Thank you."
"Can I show this to someone I know? I have a contact who might be interested."
I blink in surprise. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
"Yeah. Sure. Okay."
Eventually, he glances at his watch. "I should probably head out. I have an early practice tomorrow."
I nod, ignoring the disappointment that settles in my stomach. We both stand, and I walk him to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, turning to face me.
"No backing out now," he says, echoing his words from earlier, but his eyes say something else entirely.
I think about the kiss, about how far gone I already am, how dangerously close I am to forgetting this is all pretend. "Who says I'm going anywhere?"
For a moment, we just look at each other. I can see him debating whether to kiss me again, but he doesn't.
"See you soon, Elise."
And then he's gone, the door closes behind him.
I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his kiss. My body aches with unfulfilled desire, my heart racing with something that feels dangerously like hope.
I'm in so much trouble.
Because after that kiss, I know the truth.
This isn't fake for me.
Maybe it never was.
===
4
ELIAS
I've been in a fog for three days.
Three fucking days since I had Elise in my lap, her skin under my fingers, her mouth against mine. Three days of cold showers and sleepless nights, replaying every gasp, every shudder, every grind of her hips against mine.
After team practice, I'm first out the door, phone already in hand. I've typed and deleted the same text to Elise at least twenty times over the past three days. The "practice" excuse is so fucking transparent a child could see through it, but I can't come up with anything better.