Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
When I do finally look back, he is standing in the doorway, watching me go.
He raises one hand.
I raise mine.
Then I’m on the road, and the rain is in my eyes again, and all I can feel is him.
That one touch wasn’t enough.
Chapter
Twelve
I’m shaving my legs.
This might not seem like much to some, but, to me, it’s the equivalent of putting banners and a wacky inflatable tube man outside of the cottage and announcing that my vagina is open for business.
I haven’t shaved my legs for a long time is what I’m getting at, and the only reason I’m doing so now isn’t because I’m planning on taking a dip in the loch and I want to look good for the drowned wives, but because I know I’m going back to the castle tomorrow.
Alasdair, in his ever-so cryptic ways, had told me that I would come back when I know what I’m doing, and what I truly want with him.
Well, unfortunately for him, for my mother, for my bank account, I’ll never truly know what I’m doing. I think that’s one of the great mysteries of my life that will keep on being a mystery, because at no point have I ever figured anything out, and I’m not sure if that’s going to change in the future. Being Iris Galloway means I’m one giant work-in-progress, a sketch that I keep erasing and redoing in the ongoing pursuit of completion. Of satisfaction. Of something close enough to be perfect so I can sit back and say, I did it! I know what I’m doing! Hang me up on the wall, I’m done!
But at least I know what I truly want from him…
His dick.
I want to climb that man like Tarzan and swing from all his branches.
I want to get fucking laid.
And that’s okay. I’ve accepted it, made peace with it, and decided that it’s okay. Because I deserve to have a little fun. I deserve it. And I know he’s just the man to give it to me.
Of course, the situation isn’t perfect.
He’s my neighbor, and there’s probably some proverb about not fucking your neighbor.
He also seems to be squatting at that castle—albeit in a really luxurious way since he seems to lay claim to it while everyone else says no one is supposed to live there.
He could be the serial killer that’s been murdering women in the area.
He seems to be on a first-name basis with the Loch Ness monster.
He’s really forward, and maybe more into this than I am, judging by his stalker-y behaviors—swimming back and forth to see me, standing outside my windows at night, appearing behind my laundry, and saying things like, “I have waited a long time for a Galloway to knock on this door”—whatever the fuck that means.
But I have seen that dick, and I know he has capable hands, so…
I’m shaving my legs. And everywhere else that counts.
The next morning, I have my coffee and sugary cereal with wee marshmallow hares and stare across the bay, wondering if I’ll see him appear. I know he said I would have to come to him, yet again, but still…if he could just swim over right now, that would save me a walk.
Alas, he doesn’t come. Which means I have the whole morning to chicken out. I attempt to sketch, then to read, but by noon I feel that pull—both from someplace deep inside, something destined if you want to be woo-woo about it—and from my nether regions. Because now that I’ve gotten the idea of sex in my head, I can’t get it out. Or should I say, my body can’t let the idea go, and I think I’ve become something of a heat-seeking missile.
Granted, I’m assuming that this is something he wants. He hasn’t actually told me what he wants from me; I’m supposed to tell him first. Like when you finally gather up enough courage in grade school to tell a boy you like him and only then will he say, “I like you too,” although that didn’t work out so well for me in the third grade when I told Nick Meffin I liked him, and he flung a booger at my face in way of response.
I’m not expecting anything like that from Alasdair, but I am being a tad presumptuous in assuming he’ll fuck me. The most he’s done so far is let his very intense gaze linger on parts of my body when he thinks I’m not looking (actually, he probably does know and quite obviously doesn’t care), and cup my face like a scene from a historical romance novel. When I thought he was going to kiss me yesterday, my knees were getting ready to buckle.
But he didn’t kiss me. I think he wanted to, but he refrained.
Oh, and I suppose there was the whole jerking off in front of me when he knew I was watching him.