Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Jeffrey grunts.
“Is that a yes grunt?” I ask. “Please with honey on top?”
He crosses his arms, making his muscles bulge beneath his gray sweatshirt in a way that would make my knees weak even I wasn’t running a fever, but he doesn’t say a word.
Easing closer, I add, “Sticky, yummy honey we can lick off each other when all of this is done?”
His gaze goes dark again, but he isn’t angry this time. I would bet a month of my remaining time on earth he’s thinking about honey and my tongue and his tongue and all the fantastic things we can make each other feel.
We’ll be good together, Jeffrey and me. I can feel it every time he wraps his arms around me. When we snuggle up, we fit together so perfectly. I’m sure we’ll fit perfectly in more intimate ways, too. And for all his bluster and glowering, I know he’ll be the ideal first—and most likely, last—lover.
He will be gentle and patient and not judge me for being a twenty-five-year-old virgin.
Jeffrey is judgmental about a lot of things, but I sense he won’t be about that.
“All right,” he finally says, “I won’t call until you’re feeling better.” I start to thank him, but he cuts me off with a firm finger pointed at the bath. “But that means you get your ass in the bath, take the medicine I bring you, and do everything it takes to get your fever down.”
“Yes, sir, General, sir.” I salute him and reach for the top of my leggings.
A beat later, he’s out the door and pounding up the stairs. I have a momentary flash of nerves at the thought of being completely nude in the bath when he comes back with the pain pills.
All my body fluff is blond and fairly hard to see, but it’s also completely untamed. I can’t remember the last time I bothered shaving anything. I rarely see anyone aside from my family, and I never date.
So, what’s the point?
If I happen to wear a tank top and shorts on one of the rare occasions when I do the shopping, and a villager I’ve known my entire life gets a glimpse at my hairy legs, we both survive the encounter no worse for wear. And all the older women are hairy, too. Chamomile says that shaving wasn’t a thing for women in the U.S. until the 1920s, and that it took decades longer for anyone in Europe to care about things like underarm fuzz.
Before our more connected world made us easy prey to advertisers eager to shame us into de-fluffing ourselves, European women used to be fuzzy and proud. And damn it, I’m on a timeline. Do I really want to waste even twenty minutes of the life I have left shaving because I think a boy might like me better for it?
The answer is “hell, no,” and I step into the bath. If Jeffrey doesn’t like what he sees, he can find another woman to pour honey on.
I don’t care, one way or another.
Of course, I do care—I’m dying to find out what it’s like to be with Jeffrey—but by the time I’ve forced myself to lie down in the freezing water, I’m shivering so hard I’ve completely forgotten that I’m taking a stand on body fuzz.
I forget to be embarrassed by my nakedness, too.
I’m so cold and shivery and miserable that when Jeffrey kneels by the bath with two pills in his palm, all I can do is whimper.
“You poor thing,” he says, holding up a glass of water. “Here, let’s get these down, and hopefully you’ll feel better in twenty or thirty minutes.”
I lift my head, letting Jeffrey put the pills on my tongue and tip water in my mouth. I swallow and lie back, shivering so hard the clack of my teeth echoes off the tile wall beside the bath.
Jeffrey lays a hand on my forehead. “If you still have a fever in an hour, will you tell me where the phone is so I can call for that medevac?”
I nod and shiver harder. Maybe he’s right to be worried. I don’t think I’ve ever been this ill, at least not since I was old enough to remember it.
Mercifully, half an hour later, my fever has fallen to a tolerable one hundred degrees, and the general allows me to get out of the bath and into bed. Jeffrey helps me out of the water and into my pajamas, as chaste as an attending nurse, and tucks me in with a promise that he’ll be right outside.
Then he kisses my forehead, a sweet kiss that makes my weary heart flip in my chest, and he steps out of the room.
I watch him go, his broad shoulders silhouetted in the doorway the last thing I see before I fall deeply, peacefully asleep, certain I’ve held disaster at bay for another forty-eight hours.