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)
“Why?”
My eyes shoot straight to her breasts when she murmurs, “To hide my boobs.”
Again, I mutter, “Why?” I wait for her makeup to get hot enough to melt before saying, “The Grinch had mighty impressive boobs.”
I stop waggling my brows when Angel murmurs, “So that’s where you got your fascination for unkempt body hair?” She thrusts her hips forward and back, shockingly hardening my cock with her belly rolls. “Does this turn you on, big boy?” She sounds more like Fat Bastard in Austin Powers than Jim Carrey.
Sick of lying, I nod.
I didn’t fib when I said she could wear a potato sack and still look hot as fuck.
My honesty stops Angel’s pumps mid-hip-rock. “That’s disturbing.”
She sounds troubled, but her smile is anything but. She’s enjoying the playfulness, and the proof of this doubles when she thanks Pierre for his help by promising to drop into the theater before the end of the year.
That is only days away and a massive step in the right direction for a woman who has barely left her apartment in three years.
“Ready?” Angel asks after locking eyes with me.
“Are you?” I ask, certain she is seconds from being either mobbed by Jim Carrey fans or chased with pitchforks.
She takes a breather before slowly nodding. “I think so.”
Angel’s outfit is so popular that walking two blocks takes almost an hour.
Babies scream, kids squeal, and men wolf whistle.
I issue a few stern finger points for the latter. She’s dressed as a hairy green dude with no visible genitals. What part of any of that do they find attractive?
No, seriously. I’m asking for real. I need to know because my dick has been maintaining its own pulse for the past hour, and I have a severe phobia of body hair.
“N. O. Say it isn’t so.” Angel’s neighbor waits for us to enter the elevator of their building before he completes his statement. “You went and covered up your rogue chin hair with a heap of green ones.”
Angel slaps his chest. It would rile me with jealousy if his printed shirt didn’t give away his sexual proclivities. There are no Mrs. Clauses on his 12 Sex Positions for Christmas shirt.
He laughs off her nonverbal request for him to shut his mouth before selecting our floor.
“Are you not going straight to the party?” asks her neighbor. “It is already in full swing.”
“We will be up shortly. I just need to get something from my apartment.”
As I stare at Angel, vying to work out what she desperately needs, she stares at the elevator panel, urging it to hurry up.
It arrives at her floor fast, but it doesn’t appear fast enough. Angel sprints down the hall before begging me to open the door.
She’s in such a panic that I don’t pretend I’ve yet to have a bowel movement. I remove the key from my pocket, stuff it into the lock, swing open the door, and then gesture for her to enter first.
My attempt at chivalry slaps me in the face. Literally.
Angel slams the door in my face like she did earlier.
This time it doesn’t seem in malice.
It is purely for privacy.
She’s so eager to strip that she’ll never make it to her room before portions upon portions of her milky skin are exposed.
The only thing I can’t work out is why she wants to strip. Why sit in a makeup chair for hours only to wear your costume of choice for a third of the time?
My ego realizes this has nothing to do with the bulge in my pants when she squeals, “Bee. Bee. Bee.”
My eyes pop before I race to her side. “Are you taking the mickey?”
“The what?” She wiggles and squirms before yanking the zipper on the collar down.
“Are you joking?”
“No. I’m getting stung. It is continuously stinging me.”
“Then it can’t be a bee. They can only sting you once.”
I assist her in removing the bodysuit, my tugs so rueful that it sits at her knees in half a second. I work through a stern swallow when I recall how many wasp nests I saw in the corner of the props closet.
“It could be a swarm of wasps.”
Her face makeup crinkles when her brow shoots into her hair. “A swarm of wasps!” She squeals again. “Please get it off me, Christian. I don’t want to die.”
I strip her almost bare while dodging angry, pesky bugs unhappy about the disturbance. “Are you allergic to wasps?”
A snippet of calm douses the panic swallowing me whole when she shakes her head. “No. But their stings really hurt.”
Once she is standing before me in nothing but a bra, a pair of panties, and two sets of hairy feet, I dart my eyes between the red welts dotted across her midsection and the prosthetic stomach insert.
The cause for the numerous welts is exposed when I find a wasp hive in the lining of the stomach insert.