But think of those dirty, dirty thoughts you were having moments ago. Think of those dreams that keep happening. Think of all those nights you’ve tangled up with Stone…
“Gah!” I shout as I rocket to my feet, clenching my phone in one hand and slapping the tiled bathroom wall with my other. In a breathless whisper, I bite, “What a hypocritical phony I am.”
My readers think of me as this pristine, polished, put-together Christian girl who writes squeaky clean romance that their upper-teen could read without issue. Attraction fully exists in my stories, but it’s not the soul of my stories. The emotional bonding is. Attraction is countered with characters who try to capture their thoughts. The author persona I’ve carefully curated with each book published, each post shared, each email sent, each videocreated, and each interaction with my readers is who I wish I was.
I wish I was the girl who waited until marriage like my characters do.
I wish I was the confident lady who didn’t cave to desires, who could easily put a stop to things before they went too far. Who didn’t freely let her thoughts wander sometimes because it felt good to do so.
I wish I didn’t feel like pie with all the gooey middle filling removed only to have a crusty shell remaining.
And I can’t share this struggle with anyone. Sure, maybe Hadley, but I can’t admit to her that I haven’t beaten this yet. When she asks how I’m managing, I tell her I’m fine and thank her for checking before changing the subject. Church burn is real, and I’ve been scorched way too many times by Christian women who shut me down and tell me to try harder to be better when I attempted to confide in them over my sexual inclinations as a teenager. We as women aren’t allowed to talk about our sexual temptations because it’s a “man’s struggle.”
I set my phone down on the marbled counter and lean back against the white wall, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. Being with Stone—touching him, kissing him, catching little glimpses behind the man who is scared of commitment but is trying, learning his heart—has done a number on me.
And the fun of our encounters has begun to wear off. Don’t get me wrong, we bring the chemistry. The heat. The passion. The spice. I’m completely lost to him when it’s happening. But after, as he falls asleep with his hand on my hip and leg swung over my body, guilt drowns me much like when I was five.
Like when I was knocked into the pool at the wedding.
Except this time there’s no one around to save me.
The one who once saved me is becoming the rock tied to my feet as I sink further and further into the dark depths of the ocean.
After smoothing down my hair, wiping underneath my eyes, and making the most out of my frazzled appearance, I exit the restroom with my head tucked down and run straight into a man’s very firm chest.
“Easy there, Little Lion,” Stone says, hooking his finger under my chin and tilting my head up. All thoughts of him leaving me soon or my guilty premonitions vanish into thin smoke as he moves his hand to cup my cheek and presses his lips softly against mine. He controls the kiss, gently pushing my mouth open and pulling it closed as he slowly coaxes us deeper into each other. It’s a dance I know all the steps to but still surprises me as I move.
He tastes like the sweetness of the vanilla cake we consumed earlier. My brain short circuits as my hands roam up his chest until I eventually snake my arms around his neck and tug him closer. Hemoves his hand from my cheek and works his fingers into my hair, completely messing up what I had just fixed. A sigh escapes my lips, and that signals him to push me back through the bathroom door and up against the cool, tiled wall.
I’m a goner to him in this small, darkened space.
My thoughts are repeating his name over and over. He’s a broken record loop, and I never want to fix it.
Stone frees his hands from my hair, opting to travel down my neck, shoulders, sides, and landing on my hips. He grips me like he’s never letting go, and I think I might die if he did. In fact, I do die a little when his lips rip from mine.
“You are a—”curse“—forbidden sin to me, Lucy May.” Stone’s voice is husky as his lips travel down my neck.
Warning bells sound in the back of my head, but they’re muffled by fabric layers of Want and boxed in by Need.
I don’t know how much time passes by as we get lost in one another against that bathroom wall, every touch and taste reminding me I have a reason to live.
A knock sounds at the door, causing both of us to jump in surprise. His presence departs from me, and as I’m trying to catch my breath, the lights flick on.
Stone stares at me, crazed and hungry.
I turn my gaze to the mirror as he cracks open the door, and I notice my expression mimics his.
And then a tsunami of guilt and sadness floods my demeanor as I take in my messy hair, swollen lips, and red splotches on my neck. With trembling hands, I rip the ponytail holder from my hair, not bothering to wince at the pain as hairs are yanked from my head.
I deserve the pain.
I watch as I visibly shrink into the smallest woman who has ever lived. Someone is talking, and then I hear Stone, but I’ve tuned it out. All I can feel is overwhelming shame.
It’s too much to stand under.
So I reach for a little string in my brain labeled “numb” and pull it, forcing myself to stopfeeling.
“Lucy? Everything okay?”
