There’s such mind-bending beauty at the top, I’m mildly horrified. Because I want it so bad, yet it’s out of my reach.
I can’t touch it.
I can’t make it mine.
Even if I could… I’m not sure I’d know how to.
“I didn’t know he’d start falling so soon.” I scrape a hand through my hair. “He fights her so much.”
It’s not soon. It’s book two.
Maybe I just wasn’t ready for it?
What’s happening to me?
“Maybe that’s why he fights her.”
“And you think you’re not writing a romance.” I sit down heavily on the edge of the bed. It’s not even that late. Eleven thirty. I feel weirdly ancient.
What’s wrong with me?
“Hey, just because you skip the other three-quarters of the book to get to the sex scenes,” she teases, “don’t put that on me.”
I give her a warning look.
“I read every word,” I purr. “Jessica Rivers is my favorite author.”
She laughs, exuberantly. “Liar!” Then her smile fades. “Please don’t try to stroke my ego. It’s not that delicate.”
“I’m not lying. I don’t read fiction.”
She blinks at me. “You don’t?”
“You live with me. Have you seen a novel anywhere?”
The bookshelves by the fireplace across the room, same as the ones in my office, are lined with nonfiction books on business, economics, politics.
“I mean, you could be reading one on your tablet,” she ventures.
“I am. The ones you wrote.”
She smiles so brightly, the arrow that strikes my heart isn’t even as painful as I always thought it would be.
* * *
An hour later, Megan is fast asleep.
I’m watching her sleep.
Because obviously, I have it bad.
I reach over and cover her bare shoulder with the sheet that’s slipped off.
She stirs in her sleep, and my reaction to the sound she makes is like a rush of pure heroin through my blood.
I mean, I’ve never done heroin but I can imagine. This feeling is pure, savage pleasure. It’s euphoric as it floods my system, and it’s startling in its intensity. It’s every shade of warm there is. It’s terrifying, and it’s addictive.
All I want to do is melt into it and make it stay, no matter how dangerous it is.