says in a whisper that tickles my neck, waking all
of my senses and accentuating my very evident
emotional state.
I’d like to be able to throw myself into his arms.
Let them embrace me and comfort me. I’d like to
feel his lips on my face, on my mouth and every
centimeter of my skin. I’d like to burn under these
hands that delicately caress my shoulders, but
seem to have an unexpected, magnetic effect on
me, but I know how dangerous this is.
“Let me stay, Erin. Please,” he continues,
resting his forehead on my shoulder.
“Why? I’m not one of your playthings you can
set aside the next day. You can never have a few
hours of sex and a goodbye kiss from me. I’m
pregnant, Patrick! I don’t have time for these
things.”
“You’re right, you’re not some plaything and
you never would be, Erin. Pregnant or not, I would
never think of you in that way.”
I turn slowly, hoping that his hands will stop
making me boil from within.
“Of course not. Because I’m not like the others,
right? I’m not gorgeous, fascinating and maybe a
bit easy?”
“No, you’re not like the others.”
“I’m not enough? Is that what you’re trying to
tell me? That you could spend some time with me
without feeling the desire to fuck me on the couch
until tomorrow morning?”
