Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Except my nipples and thighs are sore. Every step I take sends a pleasurable little twinge through my sex, which aches as though I’ve been battered from the inside out with a large, blunt object.
I smile, remembering the thick length of Dex’s cock pounding into me. And I almost want to stop walking and squeeze my thighs together, as if it will keep the feeling with me for just a bit longer.
I miss him. It’s been less than a week, and I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin, the sly way he teases me. I miss teasing him. And I really just want to be back in that bed with Dex, tracing the lines of his tattoos, getting him to suck in a sharp breath when I play with his nipple ring.
None of this is good. He doesn’t live here. We’ll only see each other when he can fly into town. I need a distraction, and I aim to get it.
My steps grow quicker as I leave the subway on Ninth and head to Horatio Street. By the time I make it to Jackson’s apartment, I’m in desperate need of a fix.
Thankfully, he lets me in quickly and is waiting for me as soon as the industrial elevator rolls to a stop on his floor.
Handsome and fit, he gives me a smug grin. “Not back in the city for a day and already you’re here. I told you you’d become addicted.”
I give his sandy jaw a peck. “Yes, yes, you’re very smart. Now shut up.”
Jackson slings an arm around my shoulder. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride to me?”
“If you have to ask, you’re not worthy, Jack.”
The apartment is part of a vast, renovated warehouse. Astrid Gilberto croons about a girl from Ipanema, and the fragrance of fresh coffee and baked bread mixes with the prevalent scents of wood chips and varnish.
Jackson lets me go and calls out. “Would you stop playing that shit? You’re going to turn us into a cliché.”
Hal walks out of the kitchen, holding a tray and wearing a glare. “You keep that up and I’m going to Chinatown to buy us matching silk robes, asshole.”
Then Hal grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Fi-da-lee,” he drawls as I give him a hug. “Jack’s right. You’re addicted.”
“Maybe I just come here for the food.” I grab a croissant and take a large, obnoxious bite.
Jackson leans against the steel kitchen countertop. “So then you don’t want to see your table?”
“It’s ready?” I say around a mouth of food, though I’m pretty sure it really sounded like, “Pits meddy?”
“Breakfast first,” Hal insists, pouring me some coffee.
Which makes Jackson and me roll our eyes and head toward their workshop, Hal calling us barbarians as we go.
I’ve known Hal and Jackson since my senior year in high school when my mother stopped in their studio to look at some dining tables. Known as Jackson Hal Designs to the rest of the world, the couple creates some of the most beautiful modern furniture I’ve seen.
They work out of their apartment and have a studio on the ground floor, both of which Jackson inherited from his uncle, who bought the place in the ’80s when the Meat Packing District was, as Jackson puts it, “The domain of queers and steers.”
Now it’s a fashionable district, filled with couture, night clubs and hot restaurants.
And there is my baby. I give a little happy sigh as I run over to the dining table I made. Sixty-six inches long, it features a butcher-block top of reclaimed wood, organized in a pattern to take advantage of the natural colors and grains of each slab of wood.
At the moment, it’s all held together with massive clamps that have been in place while the glue dried.
“Want to do the honors?” Jackson asks.
I’m already unscrewing everything, eager to see the table unbound.
For the past five summers, I’ve been apprenticing with Jack and Hal, learning everything I can about furniture making. It’s helped me become a better designer, and I like that I get to work with my hands instead of simply drawing out sketches of rooms.
We all stand back and check out the table. It’s rough and needs sanding. I don’t want to use a slick varnish but plan to rub on several coats of soft, subtle wax.
“I don’t like that one dark piece,” I say, pointing to a length of wood that catches my eye. “It looks off.”
“You need a bit of imbalance,” Hal argues. “Otherwise the thing becomes bland.”
“Hal’s right.” Jackson walks around the table with a critical eye. “It works.”
We discuss the merits of the table and what I can do to improve it for a while, but eventually, my friends drag my troubles out of me.
Curled up in the corner of one of their massive couches, I palm my second cup of coffee and finish up my tale of professional woe.