Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
As I twist the faucet, I recall how there were no pictures or knickknacks on the dining room buffet or the living area mantel. A lack of personal belongings usually announces severed ties between family members, but I don’t get spoiled, entitled brat vibes from Angel, so I doubt that is the case.
She appeared physically hurt when Mrs. Richler mentioned her mother rolling in her grave. She loved her mother. I just need to work out if that love extends to her father, and if so, where is he?
It’ll be impossible to push her into the arms of her loved ones if she doesn’t have anyone to lean on.
While stepping over the rim of the clawfoot tub, I take a mental note to bring up her father during dinner. Her whitening cheeks when Mrs. Richler mentioned her mother means I can’t direct my focus toward her anytime in the next twenty-four hours. I need to regain some of the ground I lost when I couldn’t help but ogle her tight body. Reminding her of what she has lost won’t do that.
Thank god I packed gray sweatpants. Even a trained undercover CIA agent would struggle to hide her interest when cock-hugging sweats are whipped out.
Once the water temperature is pleasant, I step under the spray. The bathroom is an adequate size but dated. None of the décor inside Angel’s apartment matches the extravagance of the foyer and numerous hallways, hence the lower price tag.
I plan to renovate and flip it, but I can’t put a penny into this project with a non-paying lodger. Not a single investor will drop millions on a crash pad they can’t use. That’s why, as much as Angel fascinates me, I have no choice but to move her on.
This is purely business. It isn’t personal.
I just need my dick to get the memo. He’s still aching over the image of her clothed, so I won’t mention his response when her semi-naked frame pops into my head.
With Angel’s comment about oily hair bruising my ego more than I care to admit, and needing to take the focus off my cock before I stroke one out in the shower while thinking of a practical stranger like a psycho, I snag a bottle of shampoo from the tub’s edge and pour a generous dollop into my palm.
It lathers well, but no matter how hard I strive to remove the suds my scrub caused from my in-need-of-a-trim hair, the situation worsens instead of improving.
“What the fuck?” I mumble to myself while tugging up the shower faucet, hopeful an increase in water pressure will thin the shampoo clogging every hole in my face and swamping my beard.
My eyes, nose, and mouth are inundated in seconds with ghastly-tasting shampoo. I’m practically inhaling it, and it tastes and smells disgusting.
With water offering no solution to the excess suds, I snag a towel off the hook outside the shower curtain and drag it over my face.
It removes the shampoo suds by replacing them with an itchy, wiry substance. It is as eager to cling to my skin as my gray sweatpants, and a handful of the tickly strands lodge into the back of my throat.
The way its wiry threads irritate my tonsils reminds me of the first time I went down on a woman. She was twelve years older than me and lacked basic maintenance skills.
My sixteen-year-old self didn’t think to check the depth of the wiry mess between her legs. I buried my face headfirst into a carpet of muff and almost mufficated myself.
Her pussy was hairier than my head, and she shed pubic hair like a Husky losing his winter coat. It took weeks to cough up the final hairball our one night beneath the sheets caused, and several more months for me to learn that that much pubic hair isn’t the norm.
She scarred me for life, and I’m suddenly fretful that I am about to be hit with another long absence of pussy-eating. The towel I used to clean the shampoo suds can’t dispute this.
Groaning, I pull the towel away from my face before slowly opening my burning eyes. It is covered with fine blonde hair that stand out against my burnt orange beard. They’re not curly like unkempt pubic hair, but there’s enough to announce their wiry wisp won’t leave the back of my throat anytime within the next week.
“No, God. Please. A woman as beautiful as Angel can’t have a hairy beaver. There should be laws against a travesty of that depth.”
When I lift my eyes to the mirror to assure myself that God wouldn’t be so cruel to the same man twice in his life, another shocking fact smacks into me.
My hair is yellow. It’s not a cute, I-spent-too-much-time-in-the-sun-during-summer yellow. I mean yellow like Big Bird and just as fluffy.