Final Call (The Call #2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

can feel the ghost of his lips on mine. I can taste him on
my tongue, rich and woody, and the warmth of his body is still
threading through mine.
    My anger dissipates
before I have time to process it. It’s replaced by that hollow,
empty hole I thought I’d filled, and tears fill my eyes. I look up
at the ceiling as the tears spill over and drip down my cheeks.
    Fuck.
     
    ***
     
    I run my fingers
through my wet hair, my eyes closed. The water beats down on my
face in a futile attempt to wash any traces of Aaron Stone from me.
If it were that easy, I would have done it a long time ago, but
he’s seared into my skin. He’s burned in, like I’m branded by
him.
    My lips still feel
swollen from his forceful kiss, and there’s a light red rash on my
chin from the stubble that covers his jaw.
    I feel like I’ve
spiraled back to where I was when I left Paris. Like I’m back in
the dark pit of heartbreak and longing and disbelief. I still want
him. I crave his touch whenever I’m alone, and I crave the sound of
his voice through the silence.
    I want him to fight so
I can say no. So I can beat him back and so he can feel even an
ounce of the pain I feel whenever his name is mentioned. Whenever I
think it. Whenever he turns up in front of me like a little fucking
surprise and drives me to insanity.
    It doesn’t matter that
it’s been more than twenty-four hours since I found him outside my
house. It doesn’t matter that I should be working right now but I
can’t because of him.
    What matters is that I
can still feel him all over me.
    I can still feel his
breath and his fingers wrapping around mine and everything. I can
feel everything.
    I step out of the
shower and dry off, throwing on some sweatpants and an old tank
before heading downstairs. The doorbell goes off as I open the
fridge, and I leave it open as I answer the door.
    “Hello?”
    “Miss Black?” A young
girl peers at me over a bunch of flowers.
    “Uh…” I look at the
extravagant bouquet and back to her. “That’s me.”
    “Delivery for you.”
    “Who from?”
    She shoves the bouquet
at me and shrugs. “Doesn’t say. Have a good day!”
    I frown and back into
the house, kicking the door shut. I don’t need to ask who they’re
from. I know.
    I set them down on the
island in my kitchen and carefully look through the lilies and
roses and blossoms and god knows what fucking else until I find a
card.
     
    Tu me manques,
Dayton.
     
    “You are missing from
me,” I whisper, rubbing my thumb over the scrawled words, and close
my eyes.
    He said them a thousand
times to me when we were in Paris—the first time. Whenever we
weren’t together, he’d text me or get the concierge to pass a
message on, and it was always the same. I didn’t know what it meant
until I finally plucked up the courage to ask him.
    “The French don’t say
‘I miss you,’” he whispered. “They say, ‘You are missing from me.’
And that’s true. Whenever we’re apart, I feel half complete. That’s
why I tell you, ‘Tu me manques.’”
    That was the moment I
fell entirely in love with him. Whatever part of me was holding
back, that was the moment I really, truly lost my heart to him.
    I felt the same.
Whenever we weren’t together, I was convinced I was missing a part
of myself. Whenever we were together, I felt whole.
    Exactly the way I feel
now.
    I grab my cell, snap a
photo, and send it to Liv. My cell rings almost immediately, and I
balance it between my ear and shoulder as I pour some juice.
    “Holy shit!” she
exclaims. “Is that from Aaron?”
    “Yep. Just got
delivered.”
    “He can break my heart
any day. They’re fucking gorgeous.”
    “Yes, heartbreak is a
real hoot,” I reply dryly.
    “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t
think.”
    Obviously, Liv.
    “What are you going to
do?”
    “With the flowers? Fill
my sink with water and put them in it until I find a vase large
enough for them.”
    Her sigh is heavy and a
little pained. “Not about the flowers,