Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 74538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Everything was… thriving, unlike the city atmosphere I was used to, with concrete and steel, bricks and mortar surrounding me. The only “wildlife” I’d ever really been around was the strip of grass in the front yards of a few of the foster homes I’d been at, or when Evelyn and I would sneak off to the park just to get out of the house.
I made the last turn, the trees on either side seeming to widen more, the road giving me more breathing room. I saw a little wooden sign that alerted me to the tiny village of Búraló.
My destination.
The sign looked ancient, with scarring, fading, and a few chunks missing from the slab. In the center was a wolf’s head made up of Celtic knot detailing. The wolf was fierce and snarling, his eyes fixated right on me. It brought back a memory, one I’d had many times growing up, a dream of glowing eyes and belonging to a creature in the woods. It would hunt me in these dreams, stalking me. I knew it was dangerous, but I never felt fear.
And strangely enough, when I grew older, it was as if something in my body had been triggered, my maturity awakening, and those dreams where I ran and ran and ran because I’d known it loved the chase, had turned sexual.
God, they’d turned so erotic.
I exhaled as those dreams lashed my mind, so vivid that I was right back in them all over again. I thought of the creature in the woods chasing me. It liked the chase. But more importantly… it liked chasing me.
And despite the fact that there was never any sex in the dreams, no touching, nothing sexual at all except the chase, which seemed highly sensual, I’d always wake up sweaty and hot, and so very wet between my thighs. I'd be so needy for something, anything, that I would end up touching myself. But the orgasms were always empty, a frustration that, after a few times, I started refusing myself. I withheld that pleasure I so desperately wanted.
I blinked several times to focus back on the present—on the road, which there wasn’t much of to begin with—and realized I’d already made it into town.
My heart raced at the realization this was where I’d find my answers—if there were any to be found, that was. I felt excitement and for the first time in my life, hope.
Búraló was quaint, very old-school-looking, with a little town square, and despite the small size, it had more roundabouts than I thought were necessary. And the fact that I’d never actually been on a roundabout before made me circle the damn thing three times before finally getting off.
After getting turned around, I finally came across the bed-and-breakfast I’d be staying at. I’d booked it for two weeks, although I didn’t know if I would be staying that long. I probably wouldn’t even stay half that time.
The roads were different than what I was used to, with no real “parking lots,” so I parked as best as I could on the side of the road, nervous that a car would no doubt slam into the mirror that stuck out into the lane. But I didn’t care enough about the sardine-can rental to find another spot.
Once out of the car with my backpack slung over one shoulder and my carry-on bag in hand, I made my way up to the entrance of Isla B and B.
It was quaint. Cute. It reminded me of an old-timey mom-and-pop joint, but with a very European/Celtic flair to it. I liked it.
I pulled the little door open and instantly smelled cinnamon and something sweet. Vanilla maybe. Maple. It tingled my nose as the door shut behind me. In front of me was a small check-in desk, a vase of fresh-cut flowers on it, and a computer that looked older than me sitting beside the vase.
The interior was small but cozy, and I walked up to the desk. I set my bag down and adjusted my backpack so it was slung over both arms now and resting between my shoulder blades. There was a door to the right with a sign taped to the wood that read EMPLOYEES ONLY.
I expected an elderly Scottish man to come bustling out, his wool knit sweater a little too big on his slight frame, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. This place seemed like that’d be who owned it, at least.
The employees-only door opened as if my thoughts willed it so, and the man who stepped out certainly wasn’t what my imagination had conjured up. He couldn’t have been much older than me, maybe thirty, but that was pushing it. He was tall, and the white shirt and jeans he sported showcased a swimmer’s body. His blond hair was short and smoothed away from his face, and his smile was already in place as he stared at me.