Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Which was fine by me.
I just wished we could figure out a roster like that for our weekends. I might not have much of a life, but at least I enjoyed going out to dinner with friends and doing my best not to waste the time I’d been given.
But Nicholas?
He made friends with meningococcal and the flu, losing himself in YouTube videos on the latest cure using ivermectin and fenbendazole. He might be a biochemist by trade, but I think he dreamed of ending the world’s suffering with a magic pill he could give away for free.
That purpose drove him hard.
To bring down Big Pharma.
To give health to billions.
His one-track mind made him the worst sort of flatmate because compared to him, I felt like some silly girl playing with a microscope while he was some disciple sent straight from heaven to do godly work.
I had doubts he was even a hot-blooded man.
Compared to the guy who’d just winked at me, I’d have to say a big fat no. Even though Nicholas wasn’t bad looking. In fact, he was bookishly handsome with a neatly trimmed beard and an envy-inducing mop of brown hair bordering on bronze that flopped over his forehead. I found his habit of pushing it out of his eyes colossally annoying—including his toned, stupid muscles from working out in our lounge and running around the park. And don’t get me started on the sculptured jaw, visible whenever he was clean shaven—a jawline that some roguishly good-looking ancestor had given him.
Fine, bookishly handsome was more like deliciously handsome, but it didn’t make up for his lacking personality. He didn’t make jokes, barely looked at me, and had no drive for anything but microbiology.
Living with him was like living with a sedative.
My stomach flip-flopped as I eased back into traffic and drove on autopilot all the way home. Why did the sex-maniac circus have to stop a block away from my house? Why did I have to drive past it? And why, oh why, was I pissed about it?
It meant nothing to me.
People could do whatever the hell they wanted.
It’s a free country.
I didn’t have to go.
I didn’t need a good time in the form of a black-haired man with abs like an old-fashioned washing machine.
Definitely not.
Nope.
What man?
See?
I’ve already forgotten.
Chapter Two
OKAY, SO I LIED.
That damn man paraded around my head like a flashing billboard. His jeans hung low on his hips. That naughty smile planted firmly on very kissable, very bad, bad lips.
Dinner was dismal: broccoli with scant ranch dressing and a steamed piece of parsley fish. Yes, it was healthy, but crap, it was boring. Netflix was just a bunch of nonsense. And my heart had forgotten how to beat like a normal person, making its personal mission to keep me twitchy and hot, jumping at the barest breeze.
A noise came from Nick’s room just before his door opened and closed, and he appeared from the corridor.
My eyes flashed to him against my command; my stomach clenched.
Damn him for being so attractive.
Damn him for looking at me as if I were something he pulled off the bottom of his shoe.
He wore his usual black jeans and white t-shirt, both items far too enticing on his lanky, muscular frame. If that wasn’t bad enough, he’d thrown on a casual chequered blazer, rolling up the cuffs to his elbows, showing off forearms that should be outlawed.
His hair looked sexy-messy—styled with a bit of wax to keep it in place. He somehow toed the line between handsome geek and naughty bad boy. Not that he was a bad boy. I’d never heard him bring anyone home for the night...I would’ve heard him through the walls.
I’d often waited in the dark, holding my breath to see if I could catch the soft moans of him masturbating and not once. Not a single time in eight months we’d been rooming.
I couldn’t even use my trusty rabbit vibrator because he’d definitely hear that telltale buzzing and would probably march into my room, snatch it right out of my greedy little hands, and then give me the worst tongue-lashing of my life.
Tongue lashing...between my legs. Yes, please.
Oh God, will you stop?
My skin prickled as he stalked into the living room, keeping his eyes on the beige carpet.
I would never admit it, but I’d fantasised about that one too many times. About him finding me self-pleasuring. Him stalking into my room to spank me. He’d see how badly I needed to be touched and...well, he’d touch me. He’d sink to his knees, yank my hips off the edge of the bed, and bury his face between my—
“Ella.” He froze when he noticed me sprawled on the couch. “I thought you’d gone to bed?”
What? At freaking nine p.m.?
I wasn’t a party hopper, but I wasn’t a nana, either. “Nope. Just studying.” I motioned to the heavy text in my lap. He didn’t need to know the thought of going to bed turned me on. That reading a book turned me on. That every damn thing turned me on.