Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Surprisingly, she hasn’t warned me away from him or sat me down for any lectures in an attempt to save me from myself. She’s even hung out with us, sharing a few embarrassing stories about our adolescence that I wished she’d kept to herself and asking him shyly if he’d autograph a baseball for a fan.
Either she’s using a new form or reverse psychology, or she realizes that there’s something different about this situation. About Elliot.
For her part, she’s been spending more and more time at the office and having a lot of working lunches in the city. At least, that’s what her assistant tells me every time I call to pester her.
According to Tani, she’s loving every minute of her schedule, though I know part of the reason is that it keeps her too busy to think about her family’s silent treatment.
They’re really going to need to get over that.
But other than that worry, I really am more relaxed in general. And yes, the dirty reason that instantly inserted itself into your brain is exactly why.
Sex.
With Elliot.
Whenever and wherever we can get away with it. Since Fourth hasn’t blessed us with another elevator mishap due to her…evil villain weather machine? Wormhole? We’ve had to find alternative options. Like making out in the closet where Mr. Gordon keeps the luggage trolley and extra cleaning supplies.
Looking the man in the eye without blushing now is a challenge, but it was worth it.
We can’t always manage to get away, since Elliot has a five-year-old and I have a Tani, so I taught him how to use FaceTime in case of late-night emergencies.
He was shy at first, but once he got into it, he mastered the skill. The camera really loves him.
It’s not all about sex. I’ve been reading to him, too. He knows what quidditch is now and he was fascinated by the game, which I find incredibly arousing.
Everything he does works for me.
As for the other things going on in my life, Mama Matilda’s weekly calls have resumed, we’ve relocated several of our interested nannies—no small feat—and hired a few more for the requests that started pouring in after my surprisingly positive lifestyle interview.
Life is good but almost too busy. Between getting to know—and falling in love with—Rue, helping Elliot with his venture, and family check-ins with JD and Royal, we haven’t gotten as much alone time as I’d like. Our balcony dates don’t count.
It counted that one time last week. Remember?
I remember being terrified someone would wake up, or see us from the street and call the police. But in hindsight, that only made the experience more intense. For being such an easygoing guy, Elliot does sexual intensity better than anyone I’ve ever met.
I’m addicted to it, but I feel like I’m racing against a clock I can’t see.
Which is why I jumped at the chance to join him at the building he’s been turning into a ballplayer’s fantasy, and I’m currently standing on the fake grass that used to be a concrete floor, waving a bat around like I know what I’m doing.
“Swing batterbatterbatter.”
Elliot bites his lip to keep from laughing as he fondles the ball in his hand. “You know you’re the batter in this situation?”
Catcher might be a better fit for me. Insert the rim shot drum sound for punchline here (everything sounds filthy now). “I know I’m about to swing your ball right out of the end zone.”
“Okay, funny guy.”
He knows I’m teasing. I’ve skimmed a few rulebooks and watched more videos of EJ Ransom games than I’m willing to admit to in order to brush up on his beloved baseball. FYI, whoever was on the other side of that camera was as interested in Elliot’s ass as I am and I want to find them and tell them to back off because it’s mine. Unfortunately, every commenter on the footage made the same claim.
His beard has its own Instagram account. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before something else does.
But back to the video.
Seeing Elliot on the pitcher’s mound was revelatory. This was a man in his element. His expression was centered, his body dancer-fluid as he wound up to strike out the other team over and over again. He did it with unflagging focus and steely determination. He was a highly trained and well-developed machine, but his obvious natural talent was clear as well. The fastball that earned him his nickname left no room for doubt.
He looked like a different person. And it wasn’t because of the beard and longer hair.
Even after a win, when his teammates smacked his butt and lifted him off his feet in hugs that could crack a lesser spine, his smile never reached his eyes. I went back to check the other videos, and it was always the same. I knew those eyes. I’d memorized his face and the set of his shoulders. I noticed the difference.