Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
She’s talking about when she was on her knees, inside the shower, swallowing my cock like she was born to do it.
“Are you sure you’re okay to wait with her?” Her eyes stray to Tempy like she knows she won’t need to see my reply to understand it. “She usually goes potty straight after breakfast. Then she will be out cold for the rest of the day.”
I wait for her to gather her keys and spin to face me, before replying, “We’ll be fine. Go.”
Her sexy fucked-to-within-an-inch-of-their-life eyes lower to my mouth for the quickest second before she awkwardly waves. After patting Tempy’s head while whispering that she will be home soon, she heads for the exit.
I’d be disappointed about no goodbye kiss if I were a man who did lovey-dovey shit. I’ll give a compliment when a compliment is due, like last night when the head of my cock tickled Miranda’s tonsils, but the fawning, lovemaking, and I-love-yous after one date do my head in.
I much prefer the look on Miranda’s face when she stumbles out the door, her strides almost bowlegged. And how the defeated, sad look her eyes have rarely been without the past several months has all but vanished. I like the snippet of pain that hardens her features when she slips into the driver’s seat of her car, and how it shifts to lust in half a nanosecond.
And I really like the way her nostrils burst when she smells me on her skin.
Her happiness means there’s no one for me to bury today.
Will I feel the same when I work through the issues that have been bugging me since last night? Probably not. But the fact I’ve held back for so long shows growth.
I watch Miranda reverse out of her driveway and drive away, before twisting to face Tempy. She has devoured the funky-smelling breakfast Miranda placed out for her before she ran around her kitchen, bundling up the baked goods she made yesterday for me to take with me. She’s finished and looks on the cusp of exhaustion.
“Potty first,” I demand, my words cracking out of my mouth like a whip. “Then you can sleep.”
Miranda and I won’t be so lucky. I’ve got a shit ton of work to do before I arrive at Clark’s, and Miranda’s schedule exposes her calendar is just as brimming.
I smirk at Tempy when she does her business on the singed remains of Roy’s belongings.
With a possessive scratch on the manicured lawn, she prances away like even her shit is too good for him, matching my sentiments to a T.
Dogs know good people.
Roy isn’t one of them.
“Upstairs or downstairs?” I ask after recalling Miranda’s announcement that Tempy’s age means she can’t climb the stairs, but that it hasn’t stopped her love of the sunshine that streams through the doors of the upstairs balcony.
I scoop Tempy into my arms and begin climbing the stairs when she yaps and twirls, confident she’ll tear my nuts off if I’ve mistaken her answer.
She licks my face during the climb, stealing some of Miranda’s scent, before leaping out of my arms. She lands on a doggie daybed on the edge of the balcony.
“You good?” I ask when she circles the fluffy white micro mattress for almost thirty seconds, searching for the perfect spot.
I scratch her ear when she barks before she snuggles in deep, and then I leave as promised.
My trip “home” doesn’t take long. In eight lengthy strides, I exit Miranda’s property and enter the front door of my current abode.
I hear Eight in the kitchen, helping himself to the minimal supplies I had delivered last week, but I don’t stop to greet him. I head straight to the basement with one thing on my mind, and one thing only.
A snivel hits my ears when I enter the damp confines. The basement hasn’t been converted, so unlike the seemingly spring-ish day outside, it is cold and damp, the perfect flu aggravator.
A cold isn’t the cause of the sniveling, though.
It is the whine of a man in fear for his life.
Good.
He’s only alive because I still have a use for him.
I drag over a chair, the wooden legs sawing like the strenuous effort of the lungs of the man watching my every move. His left eye is almost swollen shut, his lips are cracked and bleeding, and the stains on his pants have me grateful I’ve not yet had the floors done.
Piss is impossible to get out of pricy wooden floorboards.
Blood is much easier.
With one of the chair’s legs balancing on two exposed toes, I take a seat.
The man bound to a rickety chair cries out, his eyes bulging as his long toe and middle toe collapse under the brunt of my weight.
His sobs make him incoherent. Since I need to hear his pathetic excuse in person, I pull out the bloody handkerchief I stuffed into his mouth before leaning in close.