Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Even the bed’s different. Dark navy sheets, a blue coverlet—neutral, masculine. Housekeepers come a few times a month, and it looks like they’ve made small changes. The room doesn’t feel like Vadka and Mariah’s anymore. It’s just his now.
I scan the room quickly. The phone’s not on the dresser. My gaze flicks to the nightstand—and there it is. A small black phone, plugged in, charging. He touched it. He’s charging it. Shit. The chances he saw that text… I rush over, grab it, unlock the screen, and delete the message.
"What are you doing in my room?"
I scream. The phone slips from my hand and hits the floor with a sharp crack. No. No. I drop to my knees, hands trembling, and stare at the screen. A long, jagged crack splits the glass. A sob catches in my throat.
"I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—"
"It’s fine," he says, his voice low. "It’s just a crack. We can fix it."
"I was just trying—" I’m out of breath, the words caught somewhere between shame and panic.
And then he’s there. Right in front of me. His forehead touches mine, and his hands come up, framing my face.
"It's okay, Ruthie."
And I wonder why he's saying it's okay—what exactly he thinks I need comfort for. His voice is relaxed, almost soothing, and he leans in, kissing my temple gently like I’m something precious. Then I realize—he’s only wearing a pair of boxers. And those boxers? They’re doing absolutely nothing to hide his erection. He’s hard as fuck. Bare-chested, sexy as sin. Tattoos trail along his arms, crawl up his neck, and stretch across the broad, solid plane of his chest—ink on muscle, power in every inch of him.
I reach out with a tentative hand, not even sure why, only that I have to. Like I don’t have a choice. I press my palm flat to the front of his stomach—the lower part of his belly—and he feels like everything I imagined—warm, solid, strong. Masculine in a way that shakes something loose inside me. A sound rises from my throat, low and raw, escaping before I can stop it. I’m aware—painfully aware—of my own heartbeat. Of the throbbing ache building between my legs. Of how my emotions are flipping, swinging wildly—from grief to loneliness to burning, undeniable need.
Then he’s pulling me toward him, his hands shifting from cradling my face to tangling into my hair. He tilts my head back, bending my mouth to his without a single word. And when his lips press to mine, something electric explodes in me. Every nerve lights up. I drop out of my head and straight into my body—fully, completely—like I never have before. His mouth takes mine, and his tongue? It slants over mine, commanding and hot. I lick him back, needing the taste of him, and he makes this low, masculine noise—half growl, half groan—that floods me with want. His arm traces down the length of my back, smooth and sure, then cups my ass in one big, possessive hand. Awareness fires through my body again, thick and sharp.
He kisses me like a man starving—and I’m the only thing that can save him. There’s pain in it, yes. But underneath that pain, a glimmer of hope. Like this could mean something. Like maybe we both still can.
“My sister died,” I whisper, my voice catching. “But we didn’t die with her. We’re still here. We’re still alive. Don’t we deserve to live?”
I’m crying—just a little—and I know I am because my chest feels cracked open and raw, and our kiss, the intimacy of it, blends with something deeper, something breaking inside me. He pulls back, only barely, burying his face in my hair. His voice is rough, a sound like shattered glass.
“Ruthie. God, Ruthie. I read your texts to your sister. I thought it was just me. I thought I was the only one. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you felt it too. I thought you—”
His voice cuts off as if it’s physically painful to say more. He just shakes his head, then suddenly he’s lifting me—his hands under my ass, his mouth grazing mine again. He walks toward the bed like he can’t wait another second. And honestly? Neither can I. I can’t think beyond this moment, beyond what I need—what I want. And I know it now. I want him.
He lays me on the bed. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “So fucking beautiful.”
“Take the shirt off, Ruthie,” he rasps, voice thick. “I want to see you.”
I hesitate, the fabric balled in my fist. But then he cups my face, holding my gaze with something so sincere, so reverent, it undoes me.
“Beautiful girl,” he whispers. “Can you trust me?”
I nod. I just know.
“Then let’s give this to each other,” he says quietly. “No one can touch me like you do. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t trust anyone else but you, Ruthie.”