Teller Reddy is wrecked.
Misery loves company, and that’s exactly what Ella gets the afternoon her path crosses with Teller’s: the misunderstood premed student who instantly becomes her lifeline when she moves to Los Angeles, an attempt at escaping her heartbreaking past.
In the beginning, Lonely and Defensive complete each other. But in the end, their relationship is like broken glass—cutthroat and jagged.
Calling it off before they kill each other, Ella and Teller decide to “just be friends” despite the intensity that binds them together. It’s a delicate foundation rocked by tragedy, effectively destroying the illusion they’ve so carefully built.
Unable to deny what’s between them any longer, this is what happens when wrecked and damaged collide and close is still not close enough.
Green eyes outlined with bruises are bright with desire, and his large hands rest on each side of my neck. My hair’s in a messy bun, and it took effort to wash my body and brush my teeth this morning, so I don’t know why I feel beautiful under his stare. But I do.
“Why do you even care if he kissed me?” I ask, inhaling a shaky breath.
His thumb sweeps across my collar bone, and Teller licks his busted lip, pulling me closer until our bodies are flush. “How can I not?”
“What are we doing?” I give no protest as he pushes me toward the bed, and gladly open my legs for him once my back hits the soft mattress. “What is this, Tell?”
Broken lips leave bloody kisses on my skin, starting from the soft spot under my ear to the hollow part of my throat. He holds himself up on his hands, indenting in the pillow under my head, and strokes deeply against my softest place.
Teller’s big, and hard, and barely sober, but with only my leggings and his boxer separating us, I don’t mind getting drunk on his breath, his skin, his one hundred proof lust. Sliding my hands up his sides, my fingers tremble over muscles that flex each time he thrusts against me.
“Tell me what this isn’t,” Teller whispers, lowering himself to his elbows. “Try to tell me this isn’t everything.”
Known as The Realist, Mary was born and raised in Southern California. She is a wife, mother of four beautiful children, and dog tamer to one enthusiastic Pit Bull and a prissy Chihuahua. She’s a hairstylist by day but contemporary fiction, new adult author by night. Mary can often be found finger twirling her hair and chewing on a stick of licorice while writing and rewriting a sentence over and over until it’s perfect. She discovered her talent for tale-telling accidentally, but literature is in her chokehold. And she’s not letting go until every story is told.