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324 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 18, 2024
« After all, what more could an exhibitionist want than a willing voyeur right outside their bedroom window? »
“Could you just… be a little less hot, please?”
“It’s like some sort of modern-day fairy tale.” I huff a laugh. “Ah, yes. The classic porn stars falling madly in love story.”
“It still hurts,” he finally says, “when the people who created you, the ones who raised you, don’t seem to see who you are.”
“I think I was yours from the beginning.”
“Christian, meet Sir Arthurpod, His Royal Cuteness, Burrower of Sand and Creator of Dreams.”
“You’re beautiful without adornment, Christian,” he says, each word cutting through the din around us. “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. But in your skirts? In those heels? You shine from the inside. And seeing that? I’m enraptured.”
“When you fall in love… that person becomes a necessity. Your brain lights up the same way it does when you eat or drink or breathe air. That person—loving that person—is something your body has adapted to and now views as essential to your survival. And that…” I huff a laugh, shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess that’s more romantic to me than passion ever could be.”
“Um, the flowers are because it sounded nice. I… I’ve never bought someone flowers before.” Time of death: precisely now.
“Emil,” I say gently, waiting for him to meet my eye. “I see you.” There’s an intake of breath, a shuddering exhalation. And then there, in his car, Emil cries. Fuck, does he cry.