Page 49 of Not Made to Last

He enters me slowly, carefully, his face in my neck the entire time. It hurts at first—his size, my lack of experience, the tension coiling inside me, telling me that nothing good can come of this, that it’s wrong for me to lead him this way… even when it feels so,soright.

22

Olivia

Dressed in a pair of Rhys’s boxer shorts and one of his shirts, I watch him from the other side of the counter while he heats the food we let get cold.

“I can probably find you a hair dryer if you want one,” he says, the remnants of his exertion still visible in his cheeks. We’d showered together afterward, and now we’re here… standing in his kitchen, playing house, as if this is all completely normal.

“I’m good,” I tell him, wrapping my hair in a towel. I glance around, taking everything in.

He has piles of books scattered around, and it’s clear they aren’t just there for decoration. There are books on the shelf behind his couch, on the side tables, and on the kitchen counter. And it’s not just the books that hint that this is where he spends his time. He doesn’t have dirty clothes scattered everywhere or posters of pro athletes on his walls like Dom does, but the space is very… Rhys.

Clean. Confident. Masculine.

It also kind of maybe smells like him, not that I noticed.

It’s obvious that the main house is a house, but this pool house is Rhys’shome. Even if he hadn’t told me earlier, I’d felt it the moment I stepped inside. The place isclean—not a hint of dirt or dust and no pictures on the wall, just like the main house. Along with the couch are two armchairs in front of a window, facing the pool, and between the chairs is a vintage barrel coffee table. I smile. I can’t help it. Because the table reminds me of my grandfather.

“You want to snoop, don’t you?” he asks.

I should be ashamed, but I’m not. “So bad,” I admit.

He chuckles, grabbing plates from an overhead cabinet. “Have at it, Cheeks.”

I go straight for the barrel coffee table, get on my knees beside it, and run a finger along the woodgrain. “It’s beautiful,” I say, but it’s barely a whisper. I note the books stacked in the center:The Catcher in the Rye,Don Quixote,The Secret Garden, and1984.

Back on my feet, I spot the bookshelf by the bedroom door and make my way over. It’s only once I’m close enough to read the spines that I realize what the books are.

Orbook, in this case.

Multiple different editions, different bindings, different covers and even different languages, but all the same title.

The same story.

I hover a hand in front of the only one facing forward, while the rest only show their spines. “May I?” I ask, glancing over at Rhys standing in the kitchen with his arms crossed, watching me.

He nods once, eyebrows set.

I pick up the small, worn paperback ofTheCount of Monte Cristoand flip it to the page that’s bookmarked. Then I zone in on the highlighted words, even though I already know what they’ll be.

I knew it even before I cracked open the book.

The one and only voice message Rhys had ever sent me was a recital of his favorite line in the book. The same line that’s highlighted in the copy I keep in my dollhouse.

I make my way over to him, the book still open in my hands, and read out loud, “All human wisdom is contained in these two words - Wait and Hope.”

He doesn’t respond, and when I look up at him, he’s watching me, his eyes holding more emotion than I’m comfortable with. I square my shoulders, level my breathing. Then ask, “What are you waiting for?”

He takes the book from me, closing it carefully before placing it on the kitchen counter behind me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer my question. He simply holds my hips, gently pushing me back until my back hits the counter. And then he grasps my face in both his hands, as if he’s afraid I’ll fly away. I lose my breath when he tilts my head back, brings his mouth so close to mine the only air I can breathe has lived inside him. My chest rises, falls, and he shifts his hand to the small of my back, then forcefully tugs me forward until there’s nothing between us. No air. No space. “Ask me the next part,” he whispers against my lips.

Heat burns behind my nose, my eyes, and I blink the tears away. Fear and anticipation pump through my veins, come out in the shakiness of my voice. “What are youhopingfor, Rhys?”

His answer is simple.

Fast.

To the point.

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