The Ride Home

The Ride Home

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WpMetadataReadComplete Fri, Aug 11, 20173h 8m
'You hurt me, And I hurt you. We are forever even.' /// 'So why are you talking to me again?' 'Switch up the scenery,' he replied shortly. I frowned and took a small bite of my ice cream. Only a week ago I was crying in his arms with bruised knuckles at a bus stop. I had decided that would be the last time we would ever even be together. I had thought that it would turn into an embarrassing memory that I would always associate with his name. Yet here we were. He was sitting across from me with tinted lips from stained ice-cream. And this very moment caused me to wonder what more would come from that memory. I was a firm believer in avoiding violence. This is ironic since I was the one who punched a girl. But the more I thought about it and the more I took in Blake's presence sitting across from me, the more I came to the conclusion that maybe something good came from it. And to think, this entire thing was sprouted from one ride home. ~ ~ ~ WARNING: -This book contains profanity -It also has sexual dialogue and very suggested sexual scenes so it may get a lil frisky ~I have already pre-written most of this book so updates should be fairly quick
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youngadultreads
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A scent. A scar. A slow-burning fucking romance dressed as nostalgia. It started with a fruit. Not love, not sex - a goddamn strawberry. The kind that looks like it's been kissed by every shade of red your childhood never had. He didn't share it. Didn't speak of it. Just tasted it once, and carried the ache ever since. Years later, she walked in - smelling exactly like that forgotten sweetness. Not perfume. Not fantasy. Just... truth. Sharp, quiet, terrifying truth. The kind that crawls under your skin and whispers remember me when you least want to. He lied to her face. About himself. About the million ways he'd already started unraveling. But she knew. Women like her always know. She stared at him like sin dressed in judgment - and touched his wrist like she already owned his pulse. And he? He was fucked. Because she wasn't just beautiful. She was red. That memory. That craving. And no matter how much he pretended to be in control - she was already in his bloodstream. This isn't a love story. It's a slow possession. By scent. By memory. By her. And it ends exactly how it starts - with him on his knees, and her smelling like fucking strawberries.

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