Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“It’s the Waters curse,” I tell her.
She hums distractedly. “Curse?”
“Yeah. Apparently stupidly huge fuck sticks run in my family.”
“There must be a story that goes along with this.” She keeps petting my cock, stroking up and down the length with her fingertip, and every time she does it, it grows.
“There is.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Depends, I guess.”
“On?” She runs her finger around the crown and over the slit, where it’s weeping already.
“What you’re planning to do when I stop growing.”
She gives me a cheeky grin. “Log ride?”
I laugh, and my cock kicks under her touch. “Then I’ll tell you the story after. I need to get you ready.” I tap my lips. “Bring that pretty pussy up here so I can eat you before I fuck you.”
Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing in Clover’s kitchen in my dress pants and nothing else because she’s wearing my button-down. The first thing she did was adjust the blinds so no one can see in. I pour myself a glass of water and down it, then fill it again and down another. It’s nine in the morning. The holiday break has officially started. I have one last self-defense class to teach in a couple of hours, and then I’m supposed to head home for Christmas with my family. That’s usually something I enjoy, but this year I’m not as excited to be in Lake Geneva when the person I want to spend time with—mostly naked—is standing right here.
Clover pushes up on her tiptoes, trying to snag the canister on the shelf second from the top. She’s not particularly tall. I could grab it for her, but instead, I pick her up by the waist, lifting her a foot off the ground so she can reach it.
“You could probably bench press me,” she says when I set her back on her feet.
“Oh yeah. You weigh what? A buck ten, a buck fifteen?”
“One twenty-five.”
“I could press you for sure.”
“I can lift a bag of potatoes over my head no problem.” She flexes her biceps with a grin and starts measuring out ingredients for pancakes.
I lean against the counter. “You know they have boxes of the stuff that only need water, right?”
“Sacrilege.” Her eyes are wide with horror. “Please tell me your diet doesn’t consist solely of things like mac and cheese and pizza.”
“Nah, we eat pretty good. My sister can cook, but she could also live off Lucky Charms. I need large quantities of carbs and protein, and my dad didn’t want me or my brothers to be those guys who couldn’t follow the directions on a package of pasta, so he used to take us to a cooking class once a month when we were kids. And when we were teenagers, we all had to take a night a week and make the meal, which we were happy to do, because my mom basically burns everything. She tries, but she cooks pork chops until they resemble shoe leather.”
“What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
“I like to barbeque in the summer, but I make a mean pot of chili. I’m also a fan of crockpot meals because I can throw everything together before I leave in the morning, and it’s ready when I get home. And sometimes there are leftovers, unless Kody and my cousin come for dinner, which is often.”
She dumps a teaspoon of baking powder into the mixing bowl, sets it on the counter, and turns to me. “You are very un-twenty-one. When I was your age and in college, I lived on ramen and peanut butter sandwiches.”
I shrug. “My mom eats like a ten-year-old. She’ll eat candy for breakfast. But when you grow up in a house with an elite athlete for a father, you learn a lot about feeding your body for your sport.”
“You’ve had to be responsible from a young age, haven’t you?”
“I’m not always responsible. See my shitty midterm grades this semester for details. And I’m pretty sure my advanced physiology exam didn’t go all that well.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I was busy working on my creative writing story and studied the wrong things. I’m sure I still passed, but not with the grade I’m capable of.”
“I still don’t understand why you picked a second-year creative writing class when you’re in your final year of a kin degree, anyway.” She cracks an egg and drops it into a measuring cup, whisking it to break the yolk.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I needed an elective, and I’m pretty decent at essays, so I figured that would come in handy for the class. Although, essays and creative writing aren’t the same at all, which I now know. I thought about taking an abnormal psych class, but it was at eight thirty on Monday morning, and creative writing was a night class.”