Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75478 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Gotta be prepared,” I told her, putting my hands on both of her shoulders to signal I was done. The move made her instantly tense. But instead of pulling right away, I went ahead and let my fingers sink in a bit, pressing into the tightened muscles of her neck and shoulders. “Honey, when is the last time you had a massage?” I asked, not sure how she didn’t have a constant headache with as many knots as she had.
“Oh, I don’t like having strangers touch me, you know, without my clothes on. I don’t know why they don’t offer a clothed option.”
I had a feeling that even if they did, she wouldn’t go anyway.
“Want me to stop?” I asked.
“No, it’s… okay,” she said, voice small again.
And, fuck, if I was getting permission, she was getting the best back rub I’d ever given. She’d had a bomb strapped to her chest for me, for fuck’s sake; it was the least I could do.
I moved across her shoulders, then up her neck, before moving downward.
Once the knots—and the pain associated with them—were worked out, I could have stopped. But I didn’t. There was something intoxicating about the way she relaxed, inch by inch, about how her breathing went slow and deep, her head lolling a bit to the side.
When my thumbs pressed up the sides of her neck, though, a little mewling sound escaped her.
I felt that shit in my stomach.
Fine, lower.
But given the situation, and this woman’s clear discomfort around… any and everyone, admitting even to myself that my cock was stirring to life felt wrong as fuck.
I went ahead and ignored it, pretended it didn’t happen. What I didn’t do, though, was stop. Neither did she. And those little sounds were conjuring up all sorts of fantasies about what other sounds she might make if I was touching her somewhere…
No.
Nope.
“What can I get you to eat?” I asked, resting my hands on her—much looser—shoulders again.
“What?” she asked, sounding all dreamy, like she’d been half-asleep.
“You said you haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. What can I order you? Got just about everything in town.”
“Oh, no. It’s okay. I’m fine,” she said, not wanting to be any sort of inconvenience.
“It’s not. So, what do you want, love?”
“If you guys just have, like, a snack in the cabinets or something, that would work.”
“Okay,” I said, walking around her to sit my ass down on the edge of the tub, a move that made our knees touch. “Let’s try this again, honey. I am going to order you food. What are you in the mood for? Something sweet like waffles or French toast? A sub? Italian? Chinese? Sushi? I’m gonna keep naming things until you pick something,” I added with a smile.
“Italian,” she finally decided. “I can literally always go for pasta or potatoes.”
I sussed out what kind of pasta she wanted, then talked her into getting on the bed instead of the chair, hooked her up with my remote and a charger for her phone, then left her to ‘go get the food.’
In reality, I was having someone else grab the food. I just needed some time to talk to Chris, Janie, and the other bomb experts.
“How’s she doing?” Layna asked, unfolding her long body from the couch as I emerged.
“She’s alright, considering. She’s kind of… shy. I figured she might want some women around. But I think, for right now, she just needs a few minutes to decompress.”
“Look at you, being all protective,” Layna said, her eyes brightening. “Is she pretty? She’s gotta be pretty.”
“What? I wouldn’t be protective if she wasn’t?” I asked, a little offended.
“Of course you would,” she said, moving close, then pressing a hand to my chest as she leaned in, “but don’t think I didn’t see you adjusting when you walked out of that room.”
With that, and nothing more—as was often Layna’s style—she walked off.
I followed the crowd I saw gathered out back by the picnic table. As I approached, there it was, sitting on the surface, being inspected by no fewer than five experts.
“Chris,” I said, nodding toward the blonde-haired leader of Hailstorm—a survivalist-type compound that consisted mostly of ex-military and hackers who used their particular skills to do jobs that brought money into their group.
“Sully. First impressions are you were right in thinking it looks a lot more complicated than it actually is.”
“Honestly, it’s probably the most amateur bomb I’ve ever seen,” Janie, one of the wives of the retired members, said, shrugging one of her dainty shoulders. “He probably found some super basic plans online and followed them without doing any further research.”
“It’s live, though?” I asked, pointing toward the little pockets full of what should be explosive material.
“Yeah, it’s live,” one of the guys from Hailstorm said, carefully opening one and dumping the contents onto the top of the table. “We already removed the tubes with the nitro. Got that shit out of here. These are just the projectiles left.”