Truly, Madly, Like Me - Jo Watson Page 0,123

about, and posting only the perfect pictures of yourself and waiting for people to like them before you like yourself and counting every single last one of your steps and seeing how many carbs are in a bagel and never getting a little lost because you’re always on Google Maps. To hell with all of that.” He paused for a while and then pulled my tea away from me and had a small sip. “It took me a while to learn that. To stop looking at what other people thought about me, for me to form my own opinion of myself.” He passed the tea back to me and I sipped it too and nodded at him. A silence filled the room, and we sat in it for a while.

“Wait, did you stop me there in the bedroom from doing what I was planning on doing to you because you have stretch marks?” He sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. It fell straight back to his face in that way that made me go a little crazy for him.

I nodded.

“Holy crap, Frankie, that’s about as ridiculous as taking photos of breakfast and not eating it.” And then he stood up and walked around the table towards me. I swallowed. Hard. He moved my chair and held out his hands for me to take. I looked down at them and hesitated, but then slipped them into his. He pulled me to my feet.

“Is that the only thing that stopped you?” he asked, almost sounding amused.

I nodded. “I didn’t want you to take my clothes off and then . . . you know. Be disappointed.”

“Who the hell would be disappointed?” He put his hands up to my face and held it, looking straight into my eyes.

“Well, my ex kind of was . . .” I trailed off.

“Your ex sounds like a total douchebag,” he said. “And he was clearly an idiot too.”

“Funny, you’re not the only one who said that. My sister used to tell me that,” I said.

“She sounds like a wise woman,” he remarked.

“I had a boob job,” I suddenly found myself saying. “A lift.”

Mark blinked; I think he didn’t know what to say. Why had I even said that?

“Kyle thought that—”

Mark held his hand up. “Kyle is a moron and I don’t give a flying fuck what he thought.” And then he reached out and kissed me again. This time, planting a soft, sweet kiss on my lips. “Besides,” he pulled away from the kiss, “maybe I have a thing for stretch marks.”

“Really?” I cringed.

“Maybe I have a thing for imperfections that make a person real, and not fake.”

He kissed me again.

“Maybe I’m not into glossy appearances and performances and putting on a perfect show for everyone else. Maybe I’m into the opposite of all that.” I could hear he was speaking from experience. “Maybe I’ve learned that physical appearances mean nothing. Not that I’m saying you aren’t fucking gorgeous, which you are. But maybe smiling faces on posters and Instagram don’t mean a thing. Maybe that’s all a show and what I want is something real.”

This time I kissed him. Fast and hungry and with so much wanting. He pulled away and smiled at me.

“So, can I take you back to my bedroom?” His smile was naughty and lusty and sexy as hell. In fact, he was just about the sexiest man I’d ever seen in my life. This scruffy version of him. This floppy-haired, stubbly, sometimes dirty-glasses-wearing guy. Not the perfect, polished guy that had hung on my wall as a teen.

I nodded and he pulled away from me and held his hand out. I slipped my fingers through his once more and they felt like they belonged there. I couldn’t explain it, but my fingers really liked it there between his.

And with that, he led me slowly back into his bedroom. Back towards the promise of sex.

CHAPTER 62

This time, everything was different. There was nothing fast and hungry and desperate about it. Instead, it was slow. We stood by the foot of the bed, eyes locked as he took his shirt off slowly and then dropped it back on the floor. He looked at my clothes and then raised a brow to me in question. The question was clear: May I?

I nodded, but reached behind me and pressed the light switch; the room went dark.

I felt Mark pull away from me, I heard a few footsteps, and then the light