Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I open my mouth. Close it. Then open it again. I don't know why I tell him the truth. I don't know why it feels impossible to do anything but.
“To lose my virginity,” I say in a rush of words, then immediately wish I hadn’t.
The silence that stretches between us is cavernous. He keeps looking at me but doesn't speak.
“I'm sick,” I tell him, because apparently I'm committed to telling this perfect stranger my entire life story, and there's no going back. “I’m dying, technically, though we're trying not to be dramatic about it. It's not contagious, don't worry.”
I say it the way I’ve learned to. When you use words like terminal and dying, you see the way people’s faces change, and you learn to either phrase things differently or move on quickly.
I look away and blink hard because my eyes are watering and my throat is tight… and I don't like this. “It's not that kind of sick. It’s… bone marrow. Which is—anyway. I'm rambling.” I straighten up and swallow again. “The point is, I don't want to die without—I just wanted one night when I got to be a normal person who does a normal thing.”
“And you came here,” he says slowly, “to lose your virginity.”
I don't know if he's disbelieving or simply shocked. “Well.” I shrug. “It's a sex club, right? What better place?”
He stares at me for a long moment with an expression I can't fully read. Then he tilts his head back and exhales toward the ceiling, still turning that purple band between his fingers.
“I could tell you about a hundred better places off the top of my head without even fucking trying,” he says, lowering his chin to look at me again. “Such as anywhere else.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “I don't know why you look at me like I'm being unreasonable. Literally anywhere—a hotel, your home, the back of a car belonging to a boy your own age.” He shakes his head. “Not here. Not tonight. Not like this.”
My face heats. “You make it sound so… cheap.”
“I'm not making it sound like anything.” His voice has gone lower, and somehow that's worse. He takes a step toward me. My long hair has fallen in my face, my forehead damp. He reaches over and tucks it back, sliding it gently behind my ear. I swallow hard. “I'm just telling you that you deserve someone who would make it memorable. Special. Someone who would take good care of you.”
I shrug. “People have casual sex all the time. It’s not that big a deal.”
His eyes darken. “Oh, really? Fine, then, Trouble.” He steps closer. Did he just call me Trouble, like it’s my name? “Let’s find out the difference between…”
His eyes are locked on mine. My heart is beating too fast.
He kisses me—brief, closed, almost clinical, like he's making a point before he's made it. I gasp and blink, surprised at his nearness, the brush of his lips against mine so quick I half wonder if I imagined it.
“—and this.”
His hand comes up slowly and cups my jaw. He tilts my head back just slightly, and I feel the imprint of every single fingerprint on my skin like a brand. He pauses, as if he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, close enough that I can feel the heat of his mouth before we touch. His eyes hold mine, steady and dark. My breath catches. His lips brush once, barely, and then again. This time, my lips part, and he drags an involuntary moan from deep within me. The kiss is unhurried and deliberate, and my brain goes completely blank.
I forget what we were talking about. I forget where I am. One of my hands finds his shirt and grasps for purchase, and I feel him almost smile against my mouth before he pulls back, brushes a gentle kiss to my forehead, and lets me go.
I stifle a whimper and stare.
I have no idea what he just asked me.
“The difference, Bridget.”
“The… what?”
He sighs and nods. “Yeah. Exactly. Your first time should be memorable, not an afterthought or a notch on some lad’s belt.” He reaches into his jacket for his phone. “Give me your number.”
I feel exposed and vulnerable, and I’m grumpy about it. “Why?”
His gaze snaps to mine, and his voice drops to a register I haven’t heard yet. “Because I’m a dungeon master in the club where you’ve set foot, and that means you do as you’re told.”
I don't have a response. I don't know what to say to him. “Because Cavin McCarthy is my best friend in the entire world,” he says. “And Erin is going to be his wife.” He looks at me, and again I feel small. “And you matter.” He looks back down. “Now give me your number.”