“You don’t love him.” he challenges, a small smirk appearing on his thin lips. “Excuse me?” “You can’t.” “He makes me happy,“ I retort. I cross my arms and stare defiantly up at him. “Sure.” He shrugs. “I didn’t say he didn’t. But you don’t love him. He doesn’t get under your skin the way I did.” “That’s a good thing.” “You keep lying to yourself. You say he makes you happy, but it’s not the happiness that I made you feel. It’s not the tingle in your fingers and the butterflies in your stomach. You like him cuz he’s safe. He won’t hurt you. He’s smart and funny and kind, but he’s oh so safe.” “Safe is a good thing.” I nod at him firmly. “Not for you. I can see it in your eyes. You want recklessness. You want fiery passion. You want danger. In fact, I think you need it. You thrive on it.” He steps closer, breath warm on my face. One hand slips gingerly around the small of my back and the other rests on my cheek. My breath catches in my throat. He leans down, lips just brushing my ear. My skin prickles with goosebumps, and a smile sneaks it’s way onto my face. “See? I told you.”
Excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via mymessyink)
