Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
"I mean, it's a valid question."
"Right?" She stares at me with comically wide eyes. "I mean, logically, you'd think it would have to grow proportionally to the rest of him. But those shorts of his seem kind of tight, and there's no outline, so either Hulk-raging into his giant shape is like taking a bath in freezing water or…"
Jesus Christ.
Am I jealous that she's thinking about a fictional character's cock? Yes. Yes, I am. I'd rather she thinks about mine. It's definitely proportionate. And currently hard as a motherfucker.
"So…bread?"
Smooth, Kirk. Real fucking smooth.
Her lips curve, the dimples in her cheeks popping out at me, and I know that she knows damn well that I'm desperate to change the subject. But she doesn't call me on it.
Instead, she nods exuberantly.
"You brought cookies. I figured turnabout was fair play. Unless you don't like bread? Then I'll just eat it for you and feel sorry for you for missing out on the best bread in Chicago."
"Who the fuck doesn't like bread?"
"Apparently, half of Chicago," she grumbles, her eyes wide and offended. "Everyone is so health-conscious here."
"I take it that's not the case where you're from?"
"Texas, and no. I mean, maybe in some places in the state, but mostly, we just really like food." She shrugs. "Especially if it's bad for you, like carbs, red meat, and sugar."
"Sounds like a good time to me, Elsie. I fucking love to eat."
She stares at me for a second, this look on her face that I can't quite read. And then she fidgets, her cheeks turning pink again. "Um, well, I guess I should let you get to eating. The bread, I mean. While it's fresh." She bobs her head in another of those exuberant nods. "It's best that way. Very moist."
The more she talks, the more I want to eat her. I bet she'd be fucking delicious covered in honey.
Christ.
Stop thinking. Just…stop fucking thinking.
"Let me set this inside, and I'll walk you back to your place."
"Oh, you don't have to do that."
"I insist. It's almost dark out."
She eyes me sideways. "Is this a bad neighborhood?"
"There's crime in every neighborhood."
"That's not very reassuring, Noah."
I chuckle. "It's not a bad neighborhood, but no neighborhood is safe one hundred percent of the time. People fuck up, Dimples. They do stupid shit. They see an opportunity, and they take it. So why risk it?" I shrug, reaching for the door handle…except, it doesn't move. I wiggle it with the same results. "Oh, fuck me."
"What's wrong?"
This is more embarrassing than the time I accidentally tased myself in the thigh. The prongs were two inches from my dick. I couldn't pee straight for a week. But did the hot-as-fuck neighbor see me do it? No.
"Uh, I locked myself out."
"Oh no. Do you have a hide-a-key?"
"Afraid not."
"An unlocked window?" she asks hopefully. And Christ, I'm not sure if I'm losing my mind because she's so sweetly oblivious…or because it makes her a target.
"Never leave your windows unlocked, Elsie," I growl, locking eyes with her. "Promise me."
"I…" Her tongue flicks out, swiping across her pouty bottom lip before she nods. "Okay. I promise."
I breathe a sigh of relief. "Can I use your phone? My partner has a spare key."
"Your partner?"
"Yeah, Jackson. He lives a few miles from here with his fiancée."
"Oh, your partner!" she says as if just realizing what I mean. And I can't help but grin. Did she think I meant my girlfriend or something? Shit. I haven't had one of those since I was…hell, nineteen?
I mean, I've been on a few dates over the years. What thirty-nine-year-old bachelor hasn't been on a few dates? I'd be fucking weird if I hadn't. But I haven't bothered making time for a relationship when I've had other priorities—like becoming a detective. Falling into bed with a long line of badge bunnies never interested me when I had goals.
"Yeah, my partner. Can I borrow your phone?"
"Yes." She immediately bites her lip. "But I forgot it at home."
I stare at her for a minute and then laugh loudly. Of-fucking-course she did.
"You can come in while I grab it," she says, less than two minutes later, holding her front door open for me. "Just don't judge anything you see. I'm still unpacking."
"Noted," I murmur, following her over the threshold into a small foyer. Her place is set up exactly like mine, with the living room to the right, the dining room to the left, and then the kitchen behind it. A long hallway runs the length of the place, with bedrooms and bathrooms at the back.
The wooden floorboards are scuffed, but the walls have been freshly painted. Her living room is mostly in order, with furniture neatly arrayed. Like mine, it's worn and faded. A chaise tucked into a corner beside bookshelves looks like it's been through a paintball war. Bright, happy colors and boho fabrics dominate the space.