Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
My throat tightens, and my eyes begin to sting. I’m already emotional—there’s too much sweet, good love in this room not to be—and then Bea perches on the arm of the sofa and begins to play.
First, a low, dissonant chord that hangs in the air. Then a sweeter one that echoes through secret places in my bones. Then she begins to pluck the strings, coaxing a bittersweet melody from her guitar that has me fighting a full-fledged sob fest from the start. Which is strange, I guess. This isn’t a “woe is me” track at all. It’s a clear-eyed, dignified lament for all the things loved and lost. It’s swampy and dark, like the bayou at midnight, but beautiful.
She doesn’t name him once through the entire song.
She doesn’t have to.
She sings about all the little betrayals from the cradle to the grave, yet he’s somehow there in every line. The one ugly constant, the avatar for the boot we’ve all felt crushing our necks at one point or another.
It’s vicious. Precise. The musical equivalent of burning a house down while standing on the lawn and lighting a cigarette. When she hits the bridge, her voice swells, raw and powerful, filling the living room with a declaration of independence so pure it feels holy.
When she’s done, for a moment, no one speaks.
No one breathes.
Then Nix sniffs and rises from his chair, wrapping her and the guitar in a big hug, while Makena snaps her fingers. Mimi announces it’s “the best song ever,” and Elly softly whispers, “Amen.”
“I love it, Beatrice,” I say, when she emerges from Nix’s arms. “It’s perfect, babe. Completely perfect.”
“Not yet,” she says shyly. “I need harmony. Especially on the bridge. A lower register, I think. Someone who sounds like Stevie Nicks, maybe…”
I blink, so stunned all I can do is shake my head for a moment before I rasp, “What? No way.”
“Yes way,” Beatrice says. “Come sing with me?”
I meet her steady gaze, this warrior artist determined to tell her own story, and nod.
Yes, I’ll sing with her.
I’ll sing with her and be proud as hell to help her burn it all down.
Twenty-Three
NIX
I’m never going to get enough of her.
Never.
Never enough of her goodness or her beauty or her grace or the way she makes me feel so safe, so at home. And so damned horny it would be embarrassing if she didn’t feel the same way.
But she does…
Thank God, she does.
“More,” she begs, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Nix, please. More. Harder. I need you harder.”
“Fuck, Charlotte, you feel so good.” I grit my teeth, sweat stinging in my eyes as I thrust in fast and deep. I keep it up, drawing a groan of relief from both our chests as she meets me with frantic jerks of her hips.
This woman…
She strips me to the bone, leaving me wide open, defenseless to pretend that making love to her isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The most primal and sacred and meaningful and perfect.
“So perfect,” I pant as she grips my ass, tugging me even closer, deeper, but I already know it will never be close enough.
Even with my chest crushed against hers and her breath hot on my neck as she clings to me, making those “about to come” whimpers that drive me crazy, it’s not enough.
I want to crawl inside her. I want to be her conjoined twin.
I want to erase all the fear and anger inside and replace them with this—heat, passion, connection, and the sound of Charlotte crying my name as her pussy begins to pulse around me.
Thank God for thick walls, and the white noise machine blaring by the door, ensuring none of our guests can hear her.
Because that cry?
It’s mine. Only mine.
“Yes, baby,” I rasp, my voice rough as I near the edge. “Love it when you come for me, Strawberry. Love it when you drench my fucking cock like this. So good, sweetheart, fuck. Fuck, Char, I’m so close.”
I slam into her even harder, faster, pleasure building at the base of my spine like a high diver reaching the apex just before the fall.
I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
Hips stuttering, I bury myself deep one final time and spill into her with a bliss that’s almost painful, my entire body seizing, every muscle pulling tight as the release shakes me back and forth in its teeth, violent and sweet.
So sweet…
I sag on top of her, my heart hammering against my ribs, gasping for air like a man who doesn’t run several miles on the daily. But running isn’t nearly as exciting as fucking this woman.
My woman.
Fuck, Char, I think, all I want is to know you’re mine and I’m yours and this isn’t going to end in goodbye. I don’t ever want to stay goodbye.