Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
And I was happy to.
I smile at some new ones.
@KinneyGothHale: Older brother has been talking about Aristotle for 30 min at breakfast.
She included a yawning sloth gif.
@KinneyGothHale: Also Moffy’s boyfriend and me are the only ones who can make fun of him. You try, you die.
I love that my youngest sister likes Farrow. But I slow down on another tweet.
@KinneyGothHale: 1st Rainbow Brigade outing in the works. What should we do?
She added a poll for fans to vote, but she included the same three options: bowling, bowling, and bowling.
Kinney already texted me, our cousin Tom Cobalt, and then Oscar and Farrow the details about the meet-up. She picked a date in June. LGBT Pride Month.
I think about how my little sister will be deathly furious if Farrow is late. And I told him, “If you can’t make it, don’t let Kinney scare you.”
He chewed his gum with a rising smile. “Man, I’m not afraid of your thirteen-year-old sister. Especially because she thinks she can commune with dead people,” he said. “I promise I’ll make it.”
That image of his amused smile is cemented to my cerebral cortex.
Fuck it.
I text him. He already told me that if he’s busy, he’ll just ignore me. So I’m not really worried about disturbing him.
Quickly, I type and send: thinking Of u
I purposefully fuck-up the grammar to piss him off a bit. Wind wails, and power suddenly cuts, my clock goes blank. Room darkened, I instinctively reach for my end table—my right arm fights against the sling, fuck me.
I bite down, and I’ve had it with this thing.
I reach behind me and tear off the Velcro that attaches the sling to my abdomen. And I pull the strap off my head. Slowly, I free my imprisoned right arm, and I throw the red sling onto the floor.
Then I gradually lift my right arm off my thigh. The higher I go, the more pain shoots into my collarbone and batters my shoulder.
I drop my arm back and try again.
Better. Or maybe I’m just smothering the pain with determination. I don’t know.
Whatever the case, I reach for the end table again with my bad arm. Purposefully this time to stretch the muscle.
I breathe a measured breath through my nose and slide the drawer open. Grabbing a flashlight. And my switchblade for extra precaution.
Leaning back, I pick up my phone.
No new text.
I breathe out and click into some articles that Uncle Ryke sent me. All for stretch rehab on my collarbone. I’m not supposed to try any of these until eight weeks post-surgery. It hasn’t even been four weeks yet, but maybe one workout won’t be that strenuous…
A lube ad on the sidebar distracts me, and I immediately imagine Farrow. Buck-ass naked, pirate ships, skulls, and sparrows inked all over his six-foot-three body.
He’s standing at the end of my bed. Grinning because he knows he’s aggravatingly sexy.
My veins pulse, skin hot to the touch. I rest my head back. And I try to stop myself from fantasizing by unscrewing the flashlight with two hands. Dumping out the batteries and refitting them in.
These past few weeks, sex has infiltrated my mind like hot-and-bothered battalions. I’ve always had fantasies. Always drifted. And it’s never affected my job or relationships.
But I’m more concerned that it will now that I have all this free time.
My phone pings. I desert the broken apart flashlight and click into the text.
In your thoughts, what position am I in? – Farrow
I almost rock back. Goddamn, I did not expect that response. We’ve sexted before, and I gauge the healthiness of it now. Seems enormously normal.
It’s not disrupting my life. And he initiated it. All pros at the moment. So I type and retype a sentence before settling on this:
Under me. On top of me. All over me.
I send the text, and something thwacks my window. I point my cellphone’s light at the window since I dismembered the real flashlight. My curtains blow softly, and I strain my ears.
No street hecklers tonight.
Huh.
There are no trees near my window. So it couldn’t have been a branch. I remember that I checked the front door after Janie and Luna went to bed. It’s locked. They’re safe.
My phone buzzes.
Sounds vague. Needs more adjectives. – Farrow
I groan in frustration. Sexual and just plain annoyance. I type two words fast:
Fuck me.
Sent.
My mind tries to crawl into my spank bank and pluck out images of Farrow sliding his dick between my lips—another text comes through.
Smartass. – Farrow
I don’t overthink for once and just text:
You’re putting your cock in my mouth. I can taste you beneath my tongue.
I send it.
He replies even faster.
We’ve now established that you don’t know what an adjective is. – Farrow
I’m smiling and glaring as I text back: or I just don’t like them.
My dick is starting to throb, especially as I picture Farrow straddling my shoulders with me lying back. His inked abs right up against my face, along with his cock. I take him between my lips, and Farrow clutches the back of my head. Gripping protectively. Tightly. I bring his length to the back of my throat—thwack.