Blessed

Every single slut that I banged is cause for regret.

Because all I want more than anything in the world is...

Her.

So when my ways put it all at risk and I have to choose between the good of the kingdom and the good of the woman I love, I’m put in a pickle.

Which will I choose?

***Come enter a world of modern fairytales in this full-length standalone romance by Cara Angel. No cheating or cliffhangers but it's going to contain very mature themes with scorching scenes. HEA? Always.***

Nicole

Something about summer and coffee makes me nostalgic. The smell in the air, the taste on my tongue, and the reminder of days gone by. The way the two spells out good memories has to do with my childhood, I think.

Schools are out, kids pl

ay in the street, and I have only one assignment for college. I'm procrastinating. I'm not in the mood to sit at my desk in my apartment and study.

I'm sitting in a Starbucks just a few blocks away from my place, looking out the window facing the street. I watch New York City walk by, and the sense that I'm part of something bigger overwhelms me. The people in the coffee shop mutter to each other, and the hissing of the coffee machines interrupt them after every order. Every time the door opens, the smell of summer clings to whoever walks in.

I sip my coffee and page through Sigmund Freud’s On Dreams. It's recommended reading for my program. At least I'm doing something. No one else in the third year of Psychology reads what's on the recommended list, only what's on the compulsory one. I'm not like the rest of the students. I don't want to become a psychologist for the money.

I want to help people. I'm still far away from that, but I'll get there, eventually.

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention away from the book, and I watch a young man cross the road. His hair is ruffled and wind-blown, like he’s just come from a run on a beach somewhere. His pale skin tells me that's not the case, but it doesn't detract from his looks. He walks past the window right in front of me.

He glances sideways and catches my eye. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips. I turn my attention back to my book. I'm not going to stare.

A moment later, the door opens, letting in another burst of summer. I look up and freeze. He enters the shop. I watch him as he walks to the counter. He moves like he belongs here, like he's right where he needs to be.

I envy that kind of confidence.

He walks to the line. While he stands there, he turns a little and looks over his shoulder, right at me. I flush and turn back to my book. I feel like an idiot for getting caught staring. The first time he walked past, anyone could look up and watch a stranger passing by. This time, it's obvious.

I try to focus on my book, but his eyes burn my skin. I glance up at him. He stands with his hands hanging loosely by his sides, body slightly turned, staring at me. I shift in my seat and rake my hair back with my fingers. I read two pages without taking in a single word.

He's still staring at me. Every time I look up, my eyes meet his dead on. He isn't even ashamed about it. His stare is disconcerting. He looks like he has every right to stare, like whatever I'm doing is exactly his business. It makes me uncomfortable. But I guess I started it.

I read two more pages without seeing a single word. My attention is on the stranger with the dangerous eyes. I'm not looking at him, but I know exactly where he's standing when he steps forward along with the line that is waiting to order. I know what he looks like without having to look again. He's handsome, I can tell, even when I'm not glancing up at him, that his easy confidence is well earned. He has nothing to hide with his careless blond hair and smoldering dark eyes.

What's his problem? Surely, we are square now? He’s made his point. I turn around in my chair so that my back is to him and faced the other way. I'm not going to look at him, and he has no reason to look at anything other than my back, either.

I manage to focus on my book again. Freud is going into depth about dream analysis. I reread the same two pages, concentrating on what I'm reading this time. Someone sits down right next to me. When I look up, I look right into his eyes.

I drown in the deep, dark depths of them. I shudder.

"The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life." His voice is deep and smooth like velvet.

"What?" I ask.

He nods to my book. "Freud."

Did he just quote the father of psychology to me?

"Are you a fan?" I ask.

"Of doing things rather than dreaming?"