Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Regardless of how helpless he is, I lock my bedroom door before I go to sleep.
I get up at eight the next morning, impressed with how well I slept for having had a virtual stranger in my living room all night. The fact that he’s injured helps. I pad down the hall and peek into the living room.
There’s no longer a giant of a man sprawled out on the couch. The blanket has been tossed on the floor. Awesome manners this guy has.
I shake my head, annoyed, and continue on to the kitchen. Once the coffee is percolating, the drip, drip, drip inspires the need to pee, and I rush down the hall to the spare bathroom, the urge sudden and strong.
I wrench open the door and come to an abrupt halt when I find my neighbor, one hand braced on the vanity as he relieves himself with a loud, low groan. It sounds like part relief and part agony.
I can only attribute my knee-jerk response to surprise. And my reaction is to scream. Because that’s what a person does when they find a massive, very well built man unexpectedly relieving himself in their bathroom.
My piercing shriek startles him, and he twists in my direction.
I back out of the bathroom and slam the door shut, but it does not erase what I’ve seen. My jerkwad neighbor is well endowed. Not in a terrifying “Do you shoot porn?” kind of way but more of a “That would be a welcome stretch.” It also appears that he was trying to manage relieving himself while dealing with morning wood. I didn’t realize that was possible.
A bloodcurdling scream and a low thud follow as I slam the door. Since the noise didn’t come from me, it means it came from him. Obviously I scared him as much as he scared me.
“Shit. What the hell do I do?” I ask the wall as I press my ear to the door. I can hear groans and whimpers from the other side. “Are you okay?”
“No.” The single word is followed by more groaning.
“I’m coming back in,” I warn. It’s not like I can leave him in there anyway. I have to get ready for work.
I turn the knob and peek through the narrow gap. He’s still on the floor. I push the door open farther and cringe. He’s managed to pee all over the seat. And he may have sprayed the vanity. Gross. At least it doesn’t seem to be all over the floor too.
I notice a few more details now that I’m back in “feeling bad” mode instead of “panic and shock” mode. Once again he’s in only a pair of boxer briefs. These ones are bright yellow with CAUTION written all over them, like the tape they use at crime scenes. He was fully dressed when I left him on the couch last night.
From across the hall his body is a lot to handle visually, but this close, good God, this man is stacked. Muscles layer over muscles, everything tight and defined. He’s just . . . a lot. And he takes up a considerable amount of space in this bathroom.
Based on the way he’s breathing like an angry bull, he’s also in pain. That still doesn’t explain where the rest of his clothes went. I’ll come back to that, though.
“What do you need?” Apart from a shower, most likely.
“I can’t reach my crutches.” He motions to where they lean against the wall on the opposite side of the vanity. It’s not particularly far, but I’m assuming his level of pain makes him incapable of getting to them.
I reach over him and flip the toilet seat down first, then grab the crutches and position them on either side of him. It’s awkward, since he’s facing the toilet, and I’m forced to stand behind him. My feet are sort of touching his, which is weird, but there’s not much I can do about that. He braces on the handgrips and swears a blue streak as he slowly hoists himself up.
As someone who is trained in injury rehab and physical therapy, I should know what to do, but usually the people I’m treating are wearing more clothes and haven’t scared the shit out of me or insulted me on several occasions. Also, this guy probably weighs twice what I do. I slip my hands under his arms to . . . I don’t know . . . provide support?
“What’re you doing?”
“Helping you?” I’m fully pressed up against his back. His incredibly defined, very warm, very hard, muscly back.
“By humping me from behind?” he grunts.
I step away, because screw him. He stumbles and loses his hold on one of his crutches, forcing him to use the counter to brace his weight again. I hope his hand is in his own pee.