Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“You little sneaks,” I tease, but then the teasing fades when Chase straps the toy around my waist, positioning the butterfly right over my clit.
He hands Ryker the controls and tugs me to the end of the bed.
After he covers himself, he fucks me good and hard while Ryker kneels behind me, working the controls as he bites my neck and kisses my ear.
It’s official. All my circuits have overloaded, and I am bursting, buzzing, and blissed out everywhere. This was not on my list. Not at all. This is just a pure book boyfriend move.
Or really, a double one.
The next morning, I have just enough time to take my boy around a block or two before work, so I grab Nacho’s leash and get my tripod ready. Ryker’s at the gym for a workout, but Chase is lounging on the couch, listening to something on his phone, so I wave and motion to see if he wants to join me.
“Always,” he says, tucking his earbuds away. “Scary birds circling the apocalyptic sky can wait.”
“Elaborate,” I say as we leave. “On the scary birds.”
“Oh, just this horror story I’m listening to,” he says as we reach the street.
“You meant it?” I ask, intrigued. “The night we met when you said you read horror stories.”
He shrugs, downplaying it. “Well, I listen rather than read.”
“Chase, it’s the same. You’re earhole reading instead of eyeball reading,” I say.
“Sure. We’ll call it that,” he says evasively, and I bet he had a teacher somewhere along the line who said listening to a book was cheating. “Did someone tell you that listening doesn’t count?”
“Probably, like it’s TV, but whatever. School was never my thing. Not like it is for you and Ryker, obviously,” he says, a little resigned. Like maybe he thinks I was a genius student? Or that I want that in a man?
“I was a good student,” I admit as Nacho stops to sniff a tree. “But a little aimless once I graduated.”
“You?” he asks, like he doesn’t quite believe that.
“One hundred percent. I didn’t know what I wanted to do after college. I flitted around from job to job. I did random things, like event planning, then social media for a winery. But nothing was very…interesting. Honestly, I mostly just wanted to get paid to read. I still haven’t quite found that gig yet, but the bookstore comes close enough.”
“Doesn’t sound aimless to me,” he says as the dog resumes his pace, trotting by my side.
“Tell that to my sister. And my parents.”
“They don’t like your job?”
“I think they just expect me to do something they understand. Be a teacher, or a nurse, or a librarian. Even own a bookstore. But running it? They don’t know if it’s my endgame or just a way station. And honestly, I don’t know either.”
“And I don’t think you have to know. You’re happy doing it, right?”
“It’s fun. It works for me. That’s sort of all I’ve figured out.”
“Sometimes I think we try too hard to have all the answers,” he says, sounding a little faraway for a few seconds, even distant as we round the block.
“But you have it figured out, don’t you? Because, hello. Pro sports is not an easy job to get.”
“It’s not like I have any clue what I’d do if hockey didn’t pan out. I mean, I have zero idea, Trina. So basically, I really need hockey to work out,” he says in a playful whisper, but it masks a certain amount of desperation. I think.
I bump my shoulder to his. “News flash. It is.”
He smiles but then looks to the sky, like he’s searching for something he can’t quite find. Maybe looking for his father there? My heart lurches for him. I’m not sure he’ll answer, but impulsively, I ask, “Is he part of what drives you? Your dad?”
Chase sighs, sort of contemplatively. “Yeah. He did such a great job taking care of us when I was a kid. My mom didn’t work outside of the home. She raised us and helped him out, and when he was sick, he was worried about how she’d handle it all. My brothers were still young. He was so torn apart knowing he’d leave that task to her. All the responsibility,” he says, with obvious emotion in his voice. He swallows roughly. “I promised him I’d look out for them too though. I try to do that. Every day. And I really hope I can.”
That explains so much about him—his hockey-or-bust drive, but also his charm. It’s like he needs both to deliver on this promise. “You are,” I say, emphatically.
We’re quiet for a stretch, just walking the dog as I absorb what Chase shared. But there’s one piece of the Chase puzzle I don’t quite get yet. Maybe his reading tastes are just a predilection, but I’m curious if there’s more to it. “You don’t strike me as a horror guy.”