Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Tension continues to swirl around us. It feels too taut. The longer I’m welded to his chest, the more likely I might rub against him. And I want to respect his pace. I don’t want him to regret having sex with me.
So I back away.
Our eyes latch. He clears his throat, but his voice is still hoarse from arousal. “If you ever want to recreate the scene between Kilgore and Emmalina down the line, I’d be open to that.”
Kilgore and Emmalina. They’re the main characters from Armagedd It On which was a campy erotic apocalyptic story I wrote but never finished. It quite literally only has two chapters. The characters never actually have sex together, despite what the title suggests. They do mutually masturbate in front of each other though.
My cheeks heat. He read Armagedd It On. I shouldn’t be shocked by this when he admitted to reading most everything I’ve written.
Still.
“I would be open to that too,” I say, and I almost ask what down the line entails. Five days? Five months? Five years?! But I can see his body flexing even more, and I don’t want to cause him more stress. Plus, I would really love to pop the brownies in the oven, head back to my room, and touch myself.
He nods, and I walk backwards through the doorway. I don’t know how to end this.
He’s struggling too.
So I just kinda…walk away. It’s the best I have.
And then I whip up the quickest brownie batter I’ve ever made.
Brownies are done and somewhat eaten. They feel like a weak batch. I’ve only ever assisted in making them one time. I was seventeen and at Tom’s bandmate’s house. Warner’s dad was a major stoner, and he didn’t mind us using the kitchen for such activities.
Leftover brownies are now sitting on my dresser. I also ran out of time to touch myself before Donnelly knocked on my door—so I feel a little like a live wire. Pent-up, yes. Trying to concentrate on the task at hand, also yes. High, not yet. At least I don’t think so. It’s only been ten minutes, and edibles usually take longer to hit me.
“What hasn’t Fizzle already done?” I ask more to myself than the other living souls in my bedroom (including Orion and Moondragon). I pace, throwing up a soft spiky glow-in-the-dark ball and catching it back in my hand. Donnelly lounges on my bed, careful not to disturb the sleepy Orion at the foot.
My boyfriend watches me from the corner of his eyes as he sketches in a notebook. He also wears wire-framed reading glasses, and his lips lift every second or so in the start of a sexy smile.
Paul Donnelly just had an orgasm.
I was not a witness to it, but I know of its existence. It’s almost like the knowledge and mental visual has stimulated me even more than seeing the event.
And he’s so casual on my bed, as if he’s sat there a million-and-one times, which I know can’t be statistically possible. So his casualness comes from somewhere deeper within.
I pace.
The lava lamp casts purple shadows on the wall, but most of my lights are on, so it’s not that dim-lit in here. I toss my spiky ball higher and it sticks to the ceiling. While I wait for it to slowly unstick, I say, “Fizzle has dark soda, diet soda, clear soda, aspartame-free soda, orange soda, cherry soda, all the sodas. They make PuraFons bottled water, energy drinks, teas, and sports drinks. What’s left?” The ball releases from the ceiling and drops into my palm. “More bubbles? Less troubles.”
“My type of motto,” Donnelly says, his smile mirroring mine. “Girl, hit me with the bubbles.”
I wish I had a bubble machine in this moment so I could manifest them for him. Instead, I pretend to be a blowfish and puff out my cheeks.
He grins wider. “Your invisible bubbles are by far the cutest.”
I blow out a breath, releasing my cheeks. “Yeah, but invisible bubbles won’t win over Uncle Stokes.” I wince. “Not that I even have a shot. Pretty sure having a traumatic brain injury isn’t going to roll well with the board.”
“Do they know?” Donnelly wonders.
I shrug. “No clue. But I think I’d have to disclose it.” I sink down on the white globe chair and rotate three-sixty.
“I don’t know your Uncle Stokes that well. But he’s the big boss man of Fizzle, right? So why would he go through the trouble of including you if it’d just disqualify you in the end?”
“Because he’s nice.” I brake using my feet, just to face Donnelly. “My dad jokes how Uncle Stokes was the embodiment of Captain America. Moral and just and a good guy. There’s a hundred percent chance this is a pity thing to make me feel better about being included.”