Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Does she spend all of her Saturday nights out or only the occasional one to let loose?
Is the stress of this job going to be too much for her, and perhaps most importantly, is she going to distract me this much the whole time?
Annoyed with myself, I grabbed my phone and sent a funny meme about a blowfish in the group text with Cap and Quince, but neither responded, and the loneliness became even more painful.
Frustrated, I decided to busy myself with the task of unpacking more of my boxes and trying to make this place have at least a semblance of actual residence.
I’ve been living out of a suitcase like a vagabond since arriving here, and this was exactly the kind of desperation I needed to change that.
I sorted and piled, I tucked and folded, I arranged and rearranged. It took nearly four hours, but finally, I had a closet full of clothes, a medicine cabinet full of toiletries, and a kitchen with at least a few random supplies.
With only one box left, I fully expected to finish the job and be rewarded with at least a pathetic sense of accomplishment.
But expectations are often much different from reality, and the Walter White mask at the very top distracted me.
Stupid thing in hand, I wandered the apartment looking into the chemist’s face like he could somehow take me back to that night.
To recklessness and spontaneity and a kiss with a stranger I still think about.
It was the first time in years—hell, maybe ever—that I’ve acted out of instinct and hormones at a work function rather than sticking to a carefully crafted plan.
It was the first time I’ve been so amused by a woman that I let go of all thought of rationality and responsibility.
It was a dick thing to disappear so quickly, without even the exchange of a name, but the pressure of my dad’s judgment was too much. And the fear of losing the NOLA project became too vivid in my mind.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about it.
Which is exactly how I ended up in the shower with my hand to my cock, giving myself something I needed more than I even realized.
I’d only just come when I heard a loud bang on my door.
Quickly, I jumped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my half-hard dick and hips and went to check it out.
Fast-forward twenty minutes and one extremely drunk employee, and here I am now. In Greer’s apartment, doing my best to lift her dead weight into her bed, while trying to keep my towel secure around my hips at the same time.
It’s a fucking task.
“Use your legs, woman,” I coach, wondering if I need to spend more time at the gym. In all regards, Greer is a petite woman, with just the right amount of curves. I shouldn’t be struggling under her weight, but it’s like she’s lined her pockets with lead or something.
She laughs, of course, because apparently when she’s drunk, I am incredibly funny. “Legs. That’s a funny word, don’t you think? Like, who came up with that? Why aren’t they called trunks? Or yims? Or blosts?”
“I’m not sure. But if I run into anyone who was around during the previous millennia, I’ll let you know,” I mutter and try to avert my eyes when the hem of her skirt moves up her perfect thighs a few inches too far.
What feels like miles upon miles of her silky-smooth skin is right there. In front of me.
Good God. My dick hardens immediately.
Before I can even think about doing something stupid, I snag the edge of the wrinkled comforter at the edge of the bed and toss it over her body before that skirt decides to migrate any farther.
Abruptly, she sits back up, squishes my cheeks together and guffaws, speaking in a voice laced with baby talk. “Oh my, my, someone’s cheeks are awful cheeky, aren’t they?”
When she reaches out with a pesky hand and runs her fingers across the cotton knot at my hips, I shove a gentle hand to her shoulder and settle her back into the bed.
I’m completely unsure what her plans were, but I know they wouldn’t have been good.
For her—she’s drunk. For me—I wish I were drunk at this point. For my fucking sanity. Or for my carefully constructed willpower, for that matter.
“Just relax,” I instruct. “Go to sleep and forget this ever happened.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she challenges, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Trust me, Greer,” I say, and like my hand has a mind of its own, it reaches out and slides a lock of hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. “You’d like it too. Probably even more than me.”
For a long moment, she looks up at me with those big blue eyes of hers, and my chest tightens.