Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I start to take the hose back, but he drops it to the ground, the water feeding a whole river down the garage. He presses his forehead into mine just before he grabs something on the wall, flips a switch, and I hear a machine start.
I suck in a breath, staring up into his eyes and knowing what’s about to happen. My heart races as he switches the water back to the faucet, rinses off the end of the vacuum hose, and then presses the end of the long gray tube to my clit.
It sucks, I jolt, and he grabs my hip with his other hand, holding me to it.
“Ah,” I whimper, gripping the sink behind me on both sides and letting my head fall back. My flesh gets tugged, and I squirm, but all the time trying to get closer. I buck, my hair falling over my face and the suction making my head spin. Oh God. Fuck.
This is so much better than the water.
I wrap my arms around him, one clutching the back of his neck, the other holding his waist as I rest my head on his collarbone and thrust my hips into him, the orgasm building and fucking coming.
I whimper, the heat swirling low in my belly until … it’s there. I hold my breath, stiffen, and clutch him harder, crying out as it explodes all over me. My stomach flips, my head drops back, and I hang on.
I close my eyes and ride it out, loving the feel of his eyes on my body.
He drops the vacuum tube, and I lean into his chest, clutching his belt in front of me. Everything is light. Dizzy.
And when he hugs me back, everything is warm. Like a blanket. Like a shower. Heaven.
I want to look at him so badly. Tell him to put me in the back seat of my car right here in the garage and drive into me. I open my mouth to speak, but then he starts pulling up my underwear instead.
“That was relaxing,” he breathes over my temple. “Thank you.”
Our chests match in rhythm as he reaches into his pocket, and I look down to see him slip a twenty into the strap of my panties. My stomach knots.
“You’re a good girl,” he says.
And then he presses a kiss to my forehead and walks back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Leaving me alone with my jeans around my knees and not another look at my face or uttering my name from his lips.
I clench my teeth to stop my chin from shaking.
11
Krisjen
I’m not upset. Days later, I’m still thinking about it, but I’m not upset. Macon hasn’t looked at me one time since, or said my name. He hasn’t smiled or given any impression that what happened relaxed him at all, in fact. You could hear him yelling at Trace this morning when I got out of my car for work, and Mariette is in a tizzy after he called about something and stressed her out more. She’s given me his meals to take every day, which I throw in the garbage that’s sitting right outside the front door of the restaurant on the deck as soon as I walk outside.
He hasn’t missed the food, because he hasn’t called to complain. I don’t know what he’s been eating.
Okay, I’m a little upset. I humiliated myself. I did it to myself because why? Because I thought I would be the one person he’d finally open up to? Because making Macon Jaeger happy would mean something. Because I’m arrogant and self-important. A rich teenage girl, thirteen years younger than him, who has no idea what real pain is. Or what struggling is.
I thought I was going to be profound or some shit to him, didn’t I?
Jesus Christ. I chew the corner of my mouth.
Or maybe he’s just a fucking asshole who paid me for my services because I’m meaningless in his life.
Twenty bucks … I rub my tired eyes—I’m sleeping worse and worse every night.
“Hey …”
Clay walks into the bar and plops down on one of the many empty stools in front of me. She’s got beach hair for some reason, which is very unlike Clay. I love it, though.
“Hit me,” she says, dropping her Prada onto the seat next to her.
I lift my eyebrows.
“Please?” She pouts. “I’ll sleep it off in Liv’s bed. I won’t drive. Promise.”
I inhale a breath and push off the back of the bar, unfolding my arms from my chest. Filling a glass with ice, I grab her favorite vodka, top it with some tonic, and squeeze in a lime. I slide the drink over the bar to my friend who’s just as underage as I am.
She moans as she lifts it to her lips, taking three swallows. “I realized today how much I love working with deceased people,” she says, setting the drink back down.