Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Random, right?
If Walker thought I was painfully obvious or possibly a brick short of a load, he was nice enough not to say it to my face. He replied to my texts with goofy emojis and a time he’d be free. Then he’d greet me with a polite smile and invite me inside.
The second he locked his door, we became something totally different. There was nothing polite or professional about the way we manhandled each other, bumping into furniture and off walls as we tore at clothing, battling for dominance with rabid kisses that lead to scorching hot sex. I’d fucked him on the stairs, in the kitchen, and over the living room sofa. Some nights, we’d make our way to his room and do it all over again.
Listen, I loved sex. LOVED. All caps. But I couldn’t figure out why the fuck Walker was different. Why did I want him so much? Why did I crave his scent and touch? Why did I look for flashes of red on campus, hoping to run into him by chance? Why did I think of stories or episode ideas to share as if hoarding currency so this crazy attraction might make sense to me?
I didn’t care about his show that much. I didn’t care about my social media following. I sort of wished I did. At least that would be easier to explain.
It had been a month. A whole fucking month of amazing sex and oddball post-orgasm conversations. Desire drew us together, but neither of us was in a hurry afterward. We hung out and talked. Sometimes we griped about classwork or ranked our favorite or least favorite professors or discussed movies we’d liked as kids. Most of the time, our hot topics were plain embarrassing.
Hot Topic A: Vegetables that couldn’t be trusted.
“I don’t trust eggplant,” Walker had declared, sliding his foot along my calf under the duvet.
“Eggplant? Oh, I see where you’re going with this. Eggplant emoji alert.” I’d grabbed his spent penis and squeezed, faux wincing when he smacked my hand away.
“That’s not it. I’m more suspicious of its dual name. Is it an aubergine or an eggplant? Aubergine sounds delightful. The word trips off the tongue…aubergine,” he’d drawn out each syllable in a heavy French accent. “It’s glamorous and sophisticated, like something you might name a newborn or a pet.”
“Really? I wouldn’t name a pet rock aubergine.”
Walker had chuckled, propping his head on his hand. “I had a pet rock named Ziggy.”
“Whoa. Ziggy is way too cool for a rock.”
“I know, I know. Back to veggies. Eggplant is confusing. Where is the egg coming from? It doesn’t look like an egg or a plant, and the two words combined are unappetizing.”
I’d wrinkled my forehead. “So if I’m hearing you right…eggplant is a double-agent vegetable.”
“Exactly! What about your least trusted veg?”
“Hmm.” I’d tapped a finger on my bottom lip. “Broccoli.”
“Because it has treelike aspirations,” he’d deadpanned.
“Yeah. It’s like, ‘Give it up, little green thing. You might look like a mini tree, but you just don’t have what it takes.’ ”
We’d burst into laughter, and let’s be honest…that shit wasn’t particularly funny. I supposed that was what concerned me. Walker brought out a dopey side of me reserved for close friends and family who knew me inside out. Not hookups.
Hot Topic B: Foods you wouldn’t think twice about eating off the floor.
We’d sat at the table in his kitchen waiting for the frozen pizza he’d popped into the oven to cook. I’d worn a T-shirt and boxer briefs, my bare feet planted on the rung of Walker’s chair. His robe had skimmed the hair on my leg—a thin, colorful silky garment tied loosely at his waist. He hadn’t been wearing a stitch underneath and yes, we’d just changed his sheets after round two and my normally eager dick needed a break, but I’d still wanted to see him. I wanted him naked.
I’d tugged at the hem with my toes and distracted him with the three-second-rule conversation. Hey, I never claimed to be a rocket scientist.
Walker had hummed thoughtfully as if pondering a solution to world poverty. “Nothing. Sorry. I couldn’t do it.”
“What? No way. I don’t buy it. Everyone has at least one treat they’d dust off and chow without a thought.”
“Not me. I’m a germaphobe. I mean…not really. I’m not obsessive, but I have standards. Not eating off the floor isn’t even a high one.”
“Oh, brother,” I’d snorted, widening my hands like a director painting a scene. “Zombie apocalypse, access to candy and treats is limited. Something rolls onto the floor in an otherwise empty market and it’s your favorite thing ever. What is it, and are you eating it?”
“M&M’s, and no.” Walker had lifted his chin regally and retied his robe. “Especially not if there was a threat of zombies. They might be contaminated, and I told you I’m not monster material.”