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Chapter Nineteen
It’s something out of a romance novel.
The place that he takes me to.
For the ovulation window.
For the record, I didn’t want to go anywhere. I thought he could come to my apartment and we could commence the ‘trying.’ And I also would like to go on the record and say that my idea totally sucked.
Yes, I still want to keep boundaries and treat this like a business arrangement.
But oh my gosh, this place is fucking phenomenal.
First, it’s in the middle of the woods.
And when I say ‘in the middle,’ I actually mean that.
It’s so deep into the woods that surround the Bardstown Highway that you can’t see anything for miles and miles except for thick and sprawling trees. The ground is covered in dead, crunchy leaves and I bet during summer and spring, the sky is barely visible through the canopy of the leaves up above.
As it is, it’s winter creeping on fall and so the branches are naked and bare and you can see endless gray skies.
And second, there’s a cabin here.
A little wooden cabin with a sloping roof and a chimney; two windows in the front and a curved door.
Plus — oh my God, the wonders are never-ending — there’s a shimmering lake. It’s not very large; I can see the ends of it, but it looks so pretty. All surrounded by shrubs and beautiful rocks, all peaceful looking and private.
As soon as he stops his truck, I jump out of it and actually run toward the cabin before stopping and spinning around, taking it all in. This has to be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.
I stop when I hear the truck door slamming shut, see him approach me.
Slowly.
As if prowling.
His eyes on me.
All intense and full of purpose.
He’s got both our bags slung over his shoulder and I can’t help but notice his beautiful taut veins running up and down his forearms.
Not to mention the afternoon sun.
When it hits him, his bronzed skin and his wavy hair, it makes him look dipped in gold.
Not the bright kind of gold, the sunny kind, but the kind of gold that has darker, more sensual undertones.
More dangerous and threatening undertones.
When he reaches me, I ask, “You’re not kidnapping me, are you?”
He runs his eyes up and down my body, as slowly as his prowl. “Are you planning on running away?”
Biting my lip, I shake my head. “No.”
“So then you’re safe.”
Safe.
The thing I always feel around him.
Even when I shouldn’t.
Even when being here, in the middle of the woods and all alone with him, should be a scary thing. But somehow it’s not. Somehow every mile he put between Bardstown and us made me feel lighter. It made me feel freer. Probably because he was driving me away from my complicated life and bringing me closer to my dream.
“You always made me feel that,” I tell him.
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “Feel what?”
“Safe.” I swallow, unsure why I’m telling him this. “In fact, that’s one of the first things I felt when I saw you. I thought you’d keep me safe. Like no one else had ever had.”
His features ripple with something as he replies, “I didn’t though.”
I shake my head, my heart aching. “But you tried.”
“I did.”
“So that’s —”
“But it wasn’t enough, was it?”
I take a step closer to him, my neck tilting back. “But it’s —”
He does his thing with his body, his shoulders, where he bridges the gap between us so I don’t have to make the effort and says, “I’m going to though. Now.”
I know I shouldn’t trust him.
I know that.
But somehow I can’t help but whisper, “I’m scared.”
About so many things.
The secrets that I’m keeping from him. My father, my complicated life.
The baby.
Our baby.
But somehow most of all, I’m scared about the fact that I’m going to lose my virginity tonight. I know it’s silly, given that not only do I have so many things to be worried about, but also it’s not a big deal. Every girl loses her virginity at some point. And yes, it hurts, but they survive, don’t they?
Not to mention, I’ve thought about it for so long.
Read about it in so many romance novels and always replaced the hero with him and heroine with myself.
So I don’t know why I’m feeling so shaky.
But I am and he knows that.
And I see things flashing in his eyes, regret and hunger and impatience and torment. As if he wants it but he regrets it. He regrets how much he wants it.
“I know,” he whispers.
“Will you…” I lick my lips and grab his t-shirt. “Will you stop? If it hurts too much.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No.”
I twist his t-shirt. “But you —”
“You know I can’t.”
All I can do is breathe haphazardly then.
And he cradles my cheek with his free hand. “Don’t you?”
