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I lean down, pressing my lips to hers, suddenly scared because I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can barely speak,huffing into our kiss. “I’ll be reading your books. Keep writing them aboutus.”
She softly gasps, and the strength it takes for me to leave Blair’s lips is like none I’ve ever had to harness. I have to swallow hard, grind my molars, and steel my thundering heart, willing my body to pull away, my feet to move, for my hands to work, to grab my bags without looking back.
Because if I do…
I love that woman so much I’d kill my dreams for her.
SEVEN
“Call Cupid and tell him to go fuck an arrow.”
BLAIR
Once the door to Beau’s hotel suite gentlyclicksclosed, I let the sob go. I grab his pillow and bury my bawling face in it. It smells like him, like cedar and almonds, and I don’t know what hurts worse.
How stupid I was for putting myself through this.
How angry I am at Fate — she’s such a bitch.
How my heart aches that Beau gave me his jersey. I hate football so much; I love it.
Or how my body still feels him, the marks and pleasure he left on my flesh. I hope they never heal because my heart won’t.
This hurts worse than all those nights back in college combined. The nights when he was never mine, and I was hiding my sobs over it, because now… I know how it feels.
For one night, Beau was mine, and it was the best of my life.
When he’s inside me, I know we’re meant to be together. It’s like I’ve finally won, even if I’m failing at everything else in my life. And when Beau kisses me, it doesn’t matter; onlywematter.
And now…
He’s gone.
And I’ve never cried like this before.
Now I’ll have to be one of those heartbroken women who dines on ice cream and wine, and surrounds herself with a dozen cats, and dies alone, buried in stacks of her smutty books. And I weep harder, squeezing Beau’s pillow, because that life sounds fantastic to me. It’s the only one I want now.
His warmth is still on his pillow. His cologne still lingers in the air. My lips, salty with tears, still tingle from our last kiss as a ringtone smacks the air.
“Bad Girls” by M.I.A. blares from my phone in the bag I left on the bathroom vanity.
And really? Now?
Great. My sister’s calling me like she can sense my latest fuck up and wants to rub my snotty nose in it.
But Vale rarely calls, and I really need her.
Stumbling to the bathroom, tears blur my vision while I grab my phone from my bag and answer her call, but I can’t speak.
“Hello?” She snaps. “Blair?”
I barely whimper. “Yeah?”
“Oh my god, are you dead? Did he murder you?”
“I’m answering the damn phone, how the fuck can I be dead?”
She huffs, “Well, yousounddead.” Twins don’t require stories; she can sense my pathetic life. “He murdered you with his salty cum and big blue alien cock, didn’t he? And I told you he would. That man is dirty hot.”
