Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
He laughed as he pressed my foot back, stretching it. “Massaging. I’ve got a feeling I know about the topping, Mr. Loverboy.” He said that nickname with a little bit of spice added to it.
Huh, I wondered if maybe someone had told him about my promiscuous past. Could that also be affecting this whole fated mate situation? Was he subconsciously fighting the link because he was scared of getting hurt?
“I guess it was just instinct,” I answered him. I didn’t want to go into the loverboy comment in case I said something that had me sticking my currently oiled and relaxed foot in my mouth. Miles rubbed a knuckle down the center of my foot. I closed my eyes and let out an involuntary moan.
“Speaking of instinct… what was that question about fated mates for?”
And that’s the moment the world stopped.
Oh fuck, what am I—oh fuuuck that feels good, but what can I say—wow, that’s a great foot massage.
Chapter Eighteen
You
MILES
I waited, continuing to massage Dyl as he thought out his answer. I didn’t realize it was such a heavy question. It had just stuck in my head since he asked, and I figured I’d bring it up. I’d always heard of fated mates and wondered if they were actually real or a thing of fluffy legends, meant to make us believe in true love and soul bonds. I’d only met one shifter couple in my life who said they were fated, but I couldn’t tell if they were just saying that or if they had really felt some deep and irrefutable connection.
“I was curious,” Dylan finally said. He rolled his head forward and groaned as I found a particularly responsive spot at the bottom of his foot. “And… oh wow, you’re really good at this.”
I moved to his other foot, looking over at his blissed-out expression. For a second I considered moving on from the subject, but something inside me held me back. “Do you believe in them? Fated mates?”
His eyes opened, locked on mine. He tensed. I could feel it down in the sole of his foot. Could see it in the twitch of his jaw and the rigid lines of his shoulders. “I, um, I don’t think I did. I thought that maybe it was some kind of fantasy.”
Past tense. “So what changed?”
His next word—just one simple, tiny word—changed everything. “You.”
I examined his face—traced over the lines of his cheeks and eyebrows, then gazed into his eyes, trying to determine if it was a joke. That he was simply teasing me. That it’d be followed up with something about how great my massages are and how that had him feeling fated with me.
Nothing followed. Only a heavy, potent silence.
You. It echoed in my head. Sent reverberations down into my chest, bouncing around my heart, settling inside it.
You.
Why did I want to say it out loud? Mirror his statement? I didn’t feel the mystical fated tug people talked about in the stories—maybe I was broken in that way—but I couldn’t deny the fact that it felt like Dylan and I were tied together in a way that went beyond simple attraction and affection. Even though I hadn’t known him long, it was like he’d been around me my entire life. I laughed at his silly jokes, I helped boost him when he beat himself up, I was interested in the shows he watched and the games he played, I loved watching him on the ice doing something he loved, the sneaky glances he’d take my way under his helmet, the ones he’d thought I didn’t notice but I did.
I’d always notice. Dyl had become the center of my focus, helping distract me from the troubles I ran from, from the tragedy that colored my past.
Could that be why…
Dylan sat up straight, crossing his legs underneath him and leaving my hands empty. I hadn’t even realized I stopped massaging him. I’d just been holding onto his foot, processing as the moment swept over me.
You.
“That’s too much, isn’t it?” Dylan asked. “Fuck, I’m so stupid. I never should have said anything. You don’t feel it, do you? Fuuuck.” His hands went to his face, covering it in shame.
I moved up the bed and gently grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands back down. His cheeks were a firehouse red. I hated when he called himself stupid. That was the absolute last thing he should ever consider himself.
I also hated how he was technically right, about me not feeling whatever it was the stories said I should feel. I’d heard it described as being dipped into an ocean of glittering, warm water, surrounded by rainbows and sunlight. Other stories described it as being consumed by flames that didn’t hurt, every cell in your body warmed, creating an invisible bond like iron strengthened in a forge.