I grew up wishing on stars.
My father taught me to believe…in destiny, in magic, in happily ever after. Dreams were my scripture and the starry night sky was my temple. Then Mom stopped believing, left him, and took us with her. At the age of sixteen, I cashed in my dreams to pay the rent, pawned my destiny to keep my sisters together.
Now, seven years later, I’m returning home, grieving the death of my mother, and settling my sisters back into the life Mom threw away. I never intended to stay. I don’t want to deal with my father, who is so invested in the spiritual world he forgets the physical. I don’t want to face William Bailey, whose eyes remind me of the girl I was, the things I’ve done, and the future I lost.
This would all be easier if Will hated me. As it is, I have to hold my secrets close so they won’t hurt him more than they’ve already hurt me. But he wants to be in my life. He wants what I can’t bring myself to confess I sold. He wants me.
I find myself looking to my stars again...wondering if I dare one more wish.
Excerpt from WISH I MAY
© 2013 by Lexi Ryan
I can hardly breathe. My brain doesn’t have time for something as trivial as oxygen when it’s so busy cataloguing her features, memorizing the exact shade of her mocha eyes, warring with the anger and regret that have sprung to life as if they never left me to begin with.
I never thought I’d see her again. I didn’t think I wanted to.
The moment I step closer, I realize my mistake. Being near her is like a sip of water to desert-parched lips. It whips something through me—memories, lust, first love. Heartbreak. She tilts her lips up to mine, and I actually think for one goddamned ridiculous minute that I might kiss her, that I want to. That I would swallow all my pride and forgive her for just one taste.
I step back before I can give in to the impulse, and her cheeks blaze to life, her blush as cute as the rest of her. That’s the word for her: cute. Sweet smile and peppy ponytail, she exudes cuteness.
Except her ass. Her ass doesn’t even land in the same stratosphere as cute, and those tight little pants do nothing to hide its soft, round curves. And her breasts. There’s definitely nothing cute about the way her T-shirt stretches across their fullness. Or her go-for-miles legs. Not to mention the narrow strip of skin exposed between her shirt and pants. Just looking at the single inch of flesh below her navel, and I practically taste strawberry wine on my tongue.
Moonlight. Her warm skin under my tongue. The sound of her moan as my tongue dips lower.
The memory grabs hold of my senses and won’t let go.
Fuck. I can’t even lie to myself. Nothing about her says cute. Everything about her says sex. And mine.
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