Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

even despite the big feelings. I was waiting to continue an emotional conversation with a man who terrified me because I wanted more than just a quick fuck.

If that wasn’t growth, I didn’t know what was.

Archer’s fingers shook slightly as he brushed them over my cheek, as he closed them into a fist that he then rested on his thigh. “After my parents died, I wasn’t myself. I was engaged to my ex, and we’d already planned the wedding.” He sighed, stroked his thumb over my palm. “I’d known things weren’t right for a while, but we’d been together for so long that I didn’t know how to stop the ball from rolling. It was like I was strapped into the roller coaster and not in the least bit ready for the ride, but . . . I didn’t get off. I just let the operator push the button to send us off, and it was too late.”

“And it went wrong,” I said carefully when he didn’t say anything further.

“Yeah, or stayed wrong or . . . we just didn’t want the same things anymore,” he said, his eyes unfocused, telling me he was in that past, lost in those memories. “I think if we’d started dating as adults, we never would have gotten married.” He blew out a breath. “I think if my parents had been alive, I wouldn’t have gone through with it at all.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

A shrug. “We’re better off apart. She’s remarried and happy. I’m able to live how I like, able to build my life around people who aren’t always looking at our relationship as something where we have to keep score.”

“My parents were like that,” I whispered, the admission coming without thought.

It was just that he’d shared, that he’d opened up, and I felt like I owed him the same.

No, not owed.

I wanted to share, wanted this man to know me. Not because of some scoreboard, but because I wanted to get close to him. I wanted to let him in. And maybe that was critically stupid considering my past experiences with men, with my parents.

But . . . Archer.

With him, I couldn’t bar the door, couldn’t continue to keep the gates closed. He’d battered them down. No. He had the key because I wanted him close, had hope that he wouldn’t look closely, see what was inside me, and find me lacking.

And if he did?

My heart spasmed.

Well, the ride would hopefully be worth it.

“Everything was transactional,” I said, when he just continued to stroke my palm with his thumb, waiting patiently for me to get my mind wrapped around my thoughts. “I did what they wanted—exactly what they wanted—and things were great. I had all the toys, the video games, the treats I wanted. If I spoke out of turn or questioned something or, heaven forbid, made my own decision, then it was like I murdered someone’s cat.”

I tugged my hand free, pushed out of my chair, and paced back and forth across the kitchen. “God, the punishments for not wearing a certain blouse or for asking to have a certain meal.” I stopped, spun back. “I’m not saying I was the perfect kid. I had my temper tantrums. I definitely deserved some of the punishments . . .”

“But,” Archer murmured when I let that trail off for a long while, “not all of them.”

“No,” I agreed. “But I lived that way for a long time. I dated who they said to date. I studied what they said to study. And I was going to marry who they said to marry.” Fucking hell, I’d dodged a bullet there. If I’d walked down that aisle, I would have continued to live a small life, boxed in and compressed from all directions, not thinking for myself, not living for myself. “I was weak for a long time,” I said, “but eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“What happened?”

The memories washed over me, a cold wave sneaking up and out of the Pacific, snatching me and dragging me into the frigid sea. “I exploded. I called off the wedding . . . or rather, I ran away from it. In my dress and heels, my veil flying behind me. The perfectly done makeup and hair. I finally saw what was waiting for me at the end of the aisle, and I just couldn’t do it.”

“What’d you do then?”

“I ran all the way home, if you can believe it.” God, my feet had hurt. I’d kicked off my heels, ran with bare feet until I’d made it home. “And then I changed. Packed a suitcase, bought a bus ticket to California, and I moved on with my life.”

My parents had been absolutely furious.

I’d tried to call them from the road, wanting to let them know I was okay. And after my parents were sure I wasn’t coming home, wasn’t going to beg Derek for forgiveness, to go through with the wedding, they disowned me completely.

Probably for the best.

If I’d stayed, my life wouldn’t have been this big. I would have been limited, too afraid to step outside the box and go for the things I wanted because . . .

I froze, felt my face go pale. My heart pounded against my ribs, a cold sweat slicking down my spine when I realized—

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“Hold on,” I said, breathing heavily as I sank down into a crouch, my fingers burying themselves into my hair. “I’m having an existential crisis here.”

Fucking hell.

Because I realized that I’d made myself small anyway.

I’d left that life to find something more, to live loud and big and . . .

I hadn’t.

I hadn’t gone for relationships I’d wanted because I was scared and weak. I’d let go and burrowed deep into my safe shelter of work, of distance, of being disconnected. And I’d let stuff fly by me, drift away into the atmosphere, able to accept it because I’d convinced myself that it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.

I’d left to find myself, to