Page 91 of Wilder at Heart
Hook, line and sinker.
Because, it turns out, she’s also warm and vibrant and smart and kind and witty and, in the biggest twist of all, sexy and wild as fuck when she’s unleashed.
When she lets someone in.
She let me in, but the joke’s on me. Because Nora Wilder, with two whole notches on her bedpost, seems capable of walking away from this intoxicating thing we have unscathed, focusing only on her starry-eyed dream of a golden prince who can keep her safe.
And I’m the dark, debauched villain who seduced her and arguably brought her back to life, but I’m not the one she wants. My spells and charms have dazzled her temporarily, but she doesn’t see them as real.
I light up her world in brief, blinding flares that blaze and die.
My light isn’t constant enough for her.
I’m smoke and mirrors, and she wants bricks and mortar. Safety.
Fucking hell.
I’m talking about myself as if I’m a cautionary tale straight out of the Brothers Grimm.
I truly have lost the fucking plot.
I know Nora can’t be completely unaffected by what we have. At the very least, there’s no way she instantly goes from almost a decade of monogamy to being able to have sex like that and not feel a damn thing. She may be more experienced than me with relationships—after all, she’s actually had one, unlike me—but I’m far more experienced at sex.
And no matter what I told her, what happens between the two of us when I’m inside her is not fucking normal.
I’ve been watching her—honestly, I’ve been doing nothing else but drink in every single thing she does—and she’s as addicted to me as I am to her. She’s not just horny. She’s drawn to me like I am to her. We can’t stay away from each other. We fall asleep wrapped around each other. Wake up pressed against each other. We seek each other out at every turn.
When I cooked for her last night, she stood behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist and her cheek against my back for most of the time I was standing at the hob.
It felt… right.
When we begrudgingly got our laptops out after dinner, we top-and-tailed on the terrace sofa. Her legs tucked between mine as we sat there and typed away. Exchanging knowing, easy smiles whenever we glanced up at each other.
Just like a real couple.
Just like how I would sit with my girlfriend if we lived together.
The funny thing is, this fake relationship with Nora is by far the realest one I’ve ever had.
Actually, it’s not funny at all.
Because I love her.
I’m so fucking in love with her I can’t breathe. I’m a mess.
I get it now. The sensation of wanting more for another person than for yourself. The feeling that you’re living your entire life through the lens of whether they’re happy. The experience of not being able to breathe unless you’re breathing their air.
My entire consciousness has zeroed in on one woman. One woman who I’m with, and yet can’t have.
Not properly.
In one respect, I’ve opened her eyes to what’s possible. To the amazing power that lies inside her own body. And because of that, she can’t get enough of me.
But in another, she sees me exactly as my family sees me. As everyone sees me. As I allow people to see me, because I’ve never provided them with an alternative. I’m a flake. A happy-go-lucky party boy, with a smile for everyone and a commitment for no one. Dancing to my own tune, fucking off to start over in New York because I feel like it.
I know it’ll hurt her to walk away from me. Nowhere near as much as it’ll fucking kill me, but still. She’ll do it because she has a clear vision of the kind of life she wants, and who am I, with my loaded and relatively functional family, to look down on her dream?
No one.
