The Boy Who Has No Faith (Soulless 5)

But I didn’t want to do either of those things.

I wanted to be in the moment—like it was real.

It felt so goddamn real.

I eyed my satchel and felt weak with resignation. “This is the last time…”

When a week had passed, I was hit with a big realization.

The last woman I was with—in the flesh—was Fleur.

And there hadn’t been anyone since.

Whenever the urge came over me, I wanted to open my computer and start typing, to fall into that world like it was real, like it was my novel I was breathing life into. Porn was not a viable option because it was so…sterile and fake. A real woman was my only option, and I wasn’t going to snap out of this disgusting habit until I bounced back to my real life.

Fleur happened six weeks ago.

I hadn’t been with anyone in that long?

I’d been jerking off to a fictitious story with my assistant as the star?

Fuck, man. I needed to move the fuck on.

If she knew, she’d probably quit on the spot.

Wouldn’t blame her.

Twenty-Three

Emerson

Derek worked in the lab with his two colleagues, doing something from their computers that made their model simulator light up in response. It happened over and over again before they were back to the board figuring out how to fix it.

I’d been coming to this lab for months now, and I still had no idea what the hell they were doing.

I took a seat on the couch and opened my laptop now that lunch had been delivered and I could take care of his other paperwork. I decided to get back to editing since I was failing to keep up with him at this point. He was almost done with the book altogether.

The untitled document was still there.

I would have ignored it, but it had been updated a week ago. It displayed the date and time, which was the night we were here at the lab late.

“What is this?” If it was something important, like the document where he put his data, I needed to file it so it would be easy to find. He didn’t even name the document, so how was he supposed to find what he needed later?

Seriously, how was he still so disorganized?

I opened the document.

Instead of seeing data or scientific terms, it looked like a story.

He followed behind her into the office, watching the way she gently brushed her hair over her shoulder so it trailed down her back. She bent over slightly as she gathered her purse from the desk.

Showing that ass he couldn’t resist.

It didn’t matter how late it was. It didn’t matter that the fatigue behind his eyes was enough to make him fall asleep at his desk, which was exactly what would have happened if she hadn’t stayed.

The need took him, made his stomach tighten, made all the muscles in his arms cramp from squeezing so tightly.

When she turned around, her eyes moved to his face. The beautiful smile that was there slowly faded away, reading his look like words on a page. Her eyes slowly turned serious, as if she was thinking exactly what he was thinking.

I stilled as I read more, absolutely confused by what I was reading. It was definitely his writing, because the style was identical to the kind he used in his story. But he’d never written anything like this before. “What the hell is this…?”

She returned her purse to the desk and walked up to him, her small hands moving to his chest, flattening against his darkness. Her fingers dug in lightly, testing his strength even though she already knew he was the strongest man she’d ever been with. Eye contact ensued, lots of it, the intensity escalating as her desires became obvious.

She wanted him.

He knew it because he could feel it, breathe it, see it…

Her hands slowly guided him back to the couch, her eyes still on his with that gorgeous confidence. Her blue eyes were full of command, a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it. She gave him a playful shove, so he fell back. A soft smile moved onto her lips, and she’d never looked more beautiful, especially with those freckles on her cheeks, those soft pink lips kissable.

“Holy shit, is this me?”

His knees parted, and he stared up at her, his breathing slow and even, but deep. His jaw was clenched because the moment before the storm hit was more intense than the storm itself—at least with her.

With her eyes still on his, she pulled up her pencil skirt until her thumbs slipped into her thong. She slowly pulled it down her long legs, taking her time, drawing it out. When it was around her ankles, she kicked it away, keeping her heels on. Then she pulled her skirt the rest of the way up around her waist before she stepped to the couch, one knee hitting the cushion before the other.