Page 47 of Revelation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #2)

JOSH

I splash cold water on my face and look at myself in the mirror. What the fuck just happened between Kat and me? I wouldn’t even call what we just did sex . It felt more like a nuclear reaction. Sexual fusion. Is that a thing? Well, if not, it is now.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Water is dripping off my brow and down my nose.

Holy motherfucking shit.

How many times has Kat or I said, “Sex doesn’t have to be deep and meaningful”? And now, all of a sudden, I feel like going back in a time machine to each and every one of those conversations and shouting, “Yeah, but sometimes it is, Kat— sometimes it is !”

Jesus Christ. That was epic. The way her body felt around mine.

Her eyes. Her lips. That electricity coursing between us.

I could feel it. And the music. Oh my God.

What the fuck was James Bay trying to do to me?

Turn me into a blubbering pussy? I thought that James Bay album was cool when Jonas played it for me in New York, that’s all—I just really liked the guy’s voice.

“Hey, that’s cool,” I said when Jonas played one of the songs for me.

“Who is that?” I had no idea those songs would later provide the soundtrack of my complete and total undoing.

Holy fucking damn, that was some seriously mind-blowing sex.

Which, by the way, makes no sense at all.

Ever since breaking up with Emma, all I’ve done is fantasize about all the kinky-ass shit I wanna do, all the ways I wanna let my inner sick-fuck run amok—and that’s what got me off so hard?

—the most straight-forward, basic kind of sex a guy can have?

But, oh my fucking God, it was incredible.

Kat felt so fucking good, and the music was so perfect, and that electricity came out of nowhere and rocked my world.

.. Holy fuck. I literally had to run away from her when that last song started playing or else I was gonna turn into fucking Jonas and start calling her the ‘goddess and the muse’ or some shit like that.

For Chrissakes, the way I was feeling in that moment, I was on the cusp of pouring my heart out to her, on the verge of telling her a thousand things I’d never normally say.

For Chrissakes, I was about to babble about my upcoming move to Seattle!

“When I move to Seattle,” I was about to say, “I wanna do this every night with you, babe.” Those are the exact words I was on the verge of saying to her!

They were on the tip of my fucking tongue—even though I’m not moving for three motherfucking months!

How could I even think of making an implied promise like that?

Sure, I’m addicted to Kat right now— painfully addicted—Jesus God—I feel like a fucking labradoodle fetching a stick every time I’m in her presence—but who knows how long this white-hot passion’s gonna last?

This thing with Kat and me is brand new, after all.

At this stage in a relationship, three months from now might as well be thirty years.

Things might work out—and, shit, I sure hope they do—God, I hope they do—but they might not.

Like I always say: under-promise and over-deliver.

That’s the path to happiness and peace of mind in all things.

But, goddammit, I wanted so badly to tell her about my upcoming move to Seattle, plus a bunch of other stuff, too.

I wanted to tell her how excited I am to sit down to dinner with her noisy, chaotic family, to meet her mom and dad and brothers and just sit there, watching everyone interact.

I wanted to explain that it’s a big fucking deal for someone like me to sit down for a birthday dinner with a real family—a big family—even though it’s a ho-hum kind of thing for everyone else.

In fact, I wanted to tell her, the whole reason I lived in my fraternity house for my first two years in college (even though the place should have been condemned) was because I craved being around noise and chaos and laughter and people so badly after growing up my whole goddamned life in a fucking morgue with Joseph Stalin breathing down my neck.

Oh my God, I wanted to take Kat’s gorgeous face in my hands and stare into those icy-blue eyes that see right through me and tell her she blows me the fuck away, and not just in bed, but in every conceivable way—that I can’t find a goddamned fucking fault with her—that even her stubbornness and jealousy and evil make me want her that much more, more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman, in fact.

That I can’t stand it when we’re apart. That she’s hilarious.

And sweet. And honest. A force of nature.

That she makes my heart physically hurt when she does nothing more than smile at me.

I lean forward and stare at myself in the mirror. I’m trembling. Panting. Freaking out. I need to get a grip.

I wanted to tell her I’m falling so fast and hard for her, I feel like I need a Dramamine. And a parachute. And a fucking last will and testament.

Fuck .

I stare at my blue eyes reflected back at me in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together, man,” I say through gritted teeth. “Stop acting like a total puss.” I nod in reply to myself, take a deep breath, and slap my cheek hard —and then, once I feel like I’ve regained control of myself, I turn around and head back into my room.