What Brings Me to You Read Online Free PDF Page B

edges on the outside. Still, there was something in the way that she moved that turned me on instantly, much to my embarrassment. Thankfully, my friends didn't seem to notice me or her.
                  If I'm telling the truth, yeah, I noticed her body which wasn’t really much, but what did it to me, was her eyes. They were nothing like yours, Lace: sharp emerald green with delicate blond lashes that scream "I'm sweet" when in actuality were vicious and brutal. No, this girl's were a severe brown, almost black. It was difficult to distinguish the iris from the pupil unless the sun was in the right place, but they weren't dead like a doe's eye. They were intense, smoldering. Like a sable colored tempest. I swear I could physically see her mind turning. There was a profound, solitary sadness in them that made her seem like an ancient statue of a Greek goddess or a lone wolf. Even from a distance, I needed her.
                  It wasn’t my typical kind of ‘need” either. I talked to her and all of a sudden wanted her for more than a meaningless fuck. I wanted to know her. The girl was an enigma. She was smart: I knew it from her appraisal of Jane Austen, whom I too loathed. She was sensitive: her reaction to the end of Jane Eyre (which, embarrassingly enough I'd never read). She was tight lipped and guarded most of the time except when she was being witty and refreshingly obstinate: as her little joke about me being gay like Oscar Wilde revealed. The best part was that she didn’t know me, my name or my family, so she wasn't trying to manipulate me or get in my pants. She wasn't afraid to bust my balls and didn't cower when I gave it right back to her.
                  I know that at twenty-three, I should not have been enjoying Ultimate Frisbee as much as I did, and that coercing my friends to play nearer to her so I could get a better view, and subsequently hit her with the hard plastic disk to get her attention isn’t exactly “acting your age” but I had to do it. I had to, Lace. After our first meeting, I was contented just to be near her; to hear her breathing and to take in her scent. God, her scent! It wasn't an overpowering type of smell like perfume,  I doubt she even know she smelled like that, but I was so acutely aware of the sweet, buttery scent I swear I could’ve gotten high on it. Sweet, warm, citrusy; it reminded me of days as a kid when I’d eat overripe peaches with whipped cream, letting the sticky nectar drip down my chin and over my fingers. She was intoxicating and I spent days lazily reading in the presence of her. It was mid-June before I realized how much time I’d been spending with her not doing anything but appreciating her company. When she wasn't at the beach I would fantasize about her. When she was, I would moon over her like a starry eyed teen aged girl. The place where her neck met her shoulders; I wanted to know that place. I would long to touch the skin covering her bony shoulder. One day while we were sitting on our embankment, she up against the rock with her knees bent, face buried in a book, I watched a drop of sweat slide from her temple down her sugared-peach colored cheek to her neck and down, down, down the butterscotch slopes of her skin into her bathing suit and nestle between her breast before disappearing. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen and I felt my heartbeat quicken. She had to have heard it or sensed it or something because she turned to me with those dark chocolate eyes.
                  "What's with you today?"
                  "Why do you cover up so much?" She seemed thrown by the question and immediately self-conscious. She clutched at the knot in her wrap near her navel her brown knuckles turning red with the strain.
                  "Why do you care?"
                  "I don't,"       Lie , "just curious. I mean, look around; no one really cares what they wear to