Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
"Sheila Anderson. The prettiest girl in my third-grade class. I thought building a computer would get me girls like her."
I moved my chair closer. "Did it work? Was she impressed?"
He wiped his hand over the surface as if memorizing the lines in the wood. "Ah, I don't know. I never had a chance to show it to her." The stool squeaked as he rotated, facing me fully. Reaching forward, he dragged the stool until I was between his open legs.
I tilted my head and gave him a mock frown. "I'm a little jealous of this Sheila girl."
He worked open the front of my shirt, unbuttoning one, then two, then the entire row of buttons, the fabric gaping open, a sigh coming from his mouth as he slid his hands inside. As he cupped my lace bra, my skin awoke underneath his hands. "You have nothing to be jealous of anyone about."
"I don't know..." I whispered. A small groan slipped out when his fingers pulled down the cups, my breasts falling out before him, hanging heavy with need, the brush of his hands bringing my nipples to full alert. "She did have a computer named after her..." I left my hands on my knees. Did nothing to stop him as he took his time with my skin, the brush of his lips soft as he leaned forward and tasted my neck. Thumbed his tongue along the hollows of my throat as he gently pulled on my nipples, then moved to squeeze the weight of my breasts.
"That computer was a piece of junk," he whispered, moving his head back and taking my mouth with his. “I’ll build you a universe.” His kiss was soft, his movements slow. He sucked on my bottom lip and teased my mouth. I gave up my grip on my knees and threaded my hands through his hair. Pulled him closer.
"How many girls have you kissed in here?" I asked against his mouth.
"Hmmm..." His lips moved, kissed a soft trail along my jaw, his hands taking liberties with my breasts that would make Sheila Anderson blush bright red. "Do you count?"
"No." I pulled his head by his hair. Guided it back to my mouth.
"Then none. Unless you count the Farah Fawcett poster I professed my love to."
"Shhh. You're ruining this with your talk of senior citizens."
He laughed and went for my belt. There was the creak of a door, and I stiffened, pushing him away. Behind us, there was the flip-flop sound of his mother's steps. "Brant? It's getting late."
His eyes stayed on me as his mouth curved into a boyish smirk, his gaze dropping to my exposed chest, my shirt still hanging open. "All right Mom. We'll be up in a second."
No response from her, just the retreat of footsteps and the click of a door. I clamped my hand over my mouth as a ridiculous giggle erupted out. He gave me one last grope before standing and pulling my shirt closed. "Button up my little minx. Let's get out of here before I take you on this desk."
I fumbled my way through the buttons, certain that my flushed cheeks and his smile would give away our actions. But when we made our way through the house and back to the table, his parents seemed none the wiser.
Dessert, a lemon pie that would put Marie Callender to shame, was more pleasant, and conversation moved at a steadier clip. If I had to guess, Brant’s mother had given his father a stern warning during our basement time. The man seemed contrite, and Mrs. Sharp kept sending me apologetic looks, every time our gaze met over the table. When our plates were emptied, I rose to help clear the table.
I followed Brant's mother through a swinging door and into a small kitchen. It was dated, with white appliances and old tile countertops. I scraped plates into the trash and the small space was quiet with our sudden isolation from the men.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, her voice soft. “For what Spencer said. About you not dating Brant.”
“It’s fine. Really.” I didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to give the hundred nosy questions inside me an opening to spill out. My prying would only damage this fragile connection. I looked for a safe topic. “It’s wonderful that you allowed Brant, at such a young age, to take off school to build Sheila.”
“Sheila?” Mrs. Brant looked over from the sink, confusion clearing from her face when she understood my reference. “Oh--the computer. I’d almost forgotten; it’s been so long since it was referred to as that. It was kind of a memorial thing … the name didn’t stick. Apple didn’t want the negative connotations attached to the project.” She turned off the faucet and took the plates from my hand and slid them into the soapy water.