Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
All of those last, and including the rest of her face, looked like it was covered in shaving cream.
“Jesus,” he mumbled.
“Firming mousse,” she explained the shit on her face. “You want breakfast?”
He was starved.
She was in a nightie.
Was she intending to cook in that nightie?
“No,” he answered.
“I do and you’re covering my ass so if you don’t eat, you get to watch me cook…” she tipped her head and smiled at him through foamy goo that was slowly melting into just goo, “then eat.”
He realized, with the smile, and the way he was noticing her words sounded funny, that she had something on her teeth.
“What’s wrong with your mouth?” he asked.
“Whitening strips.” She bobbed out a hip, a move that felt like a sharp tug on his balls, and sassed, “Honey, all this,” she swept an arm down her length, “doesn’t come for free by any definition of that word.”
With that she turned and bounced out of the room, the satin hugging her ass, the cream edge waving like an invitation.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.
He had to get up and follow her.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck…him.
Mo got up and followed her.
His legs longer, he caught up with her on the stairs.
She headed direct to the kitchen.
“Nespresso?” she asked, but she had a sort of lisp so it came out, “Nethpretho?”
Christ.
He wanted to laugh.
Laugh while walking across the kitchen to her, dropping to his knees and shoving his face under that lace.
“I’ll make mine after you have yours,” he replied.
“Coffee after whitening strips,” Coffee after whitening thtripth. “Least twenty more minutes. I’ll make yours now. Cream?”
“Yeah,” he grunted, leaning a hip against the counter opposite where she was and watching her move around her kitchen.
He hoped dressing came after whitening strips too.
“Sugar?”
“No.”
“Good boy,” she murmured, opening a cover and grabbing a big clear bowl filled with pods.
He didn’t want to be her good boy.
He wanted to be her good boy.
She turned to him. “I do natural cream. I try not to fill my body with too many chemicals.”
Just strap them on your teeth and slather them on your face.
He did not say that.
He dipped his chin.
She got the coffee brewing, turned and leaned her back against the counter.
“Egg white omelet with herbs, mushrooms and manchego. Turkey sausages. Hash browns. You wanna change your mind about breakfast?”
Abso-fucking-lutely.
His stomach nearly growled.
He just nodded once.
She gave him a foggy-toothed smile and set about moving around the kitchen again, getting out skillets, bowls, a whisk.
Apparently, she was going to cook in that nightie.
Thank Christ for the goo on her face.
Before she really got down to business, she handed him his coffee and announced she was taking away the only defense he had by declaring, “I gotta wash this off my face. I’ll get on it when I come back.”
And then she was strutting out of the room.
The goo was going.
Terrific.
Mo pulled air into his nose and assessed the situation.
He’d locked up last night.
She had a security system.
It was on for doors and windows.
Before she got up, he’d done a walkthrough. Doors locked. Windows closed and locked. Blinds down. Security system functioning. Backyard empty. Cars parked at the front empty or folks getting in them, going about their normal business.
He could let her out of his sight for long enough for her to wash her face.
But after taking a sip of his coffee, he set it aside and walked to the foot of the stairs.
It took maybe five minutes, the last thirty seconds of those he considered jogging up to check on her, before she showed. Face clean and gleaming. Tits jiggling as she danced down the steps.
She stopped four from the bottom.
“If I can rinse my face without you in the next room, why can’t you shower with me somewhere else in the house?”
“I’m vulnerable when I shower. And unarmed. I’m not when you rinse your face.”
Another big, blurred smile and an, “Ah.”
Then more jiggling and dancing down the steps.
He’d lived a good life.
Clean.
Taken care of his mom and sisters.
Put up with them even after the taking care of them part was no longer needed (and they were a lot, every one of them).
Enlisted and was honorably discharged.
He did right by Hawk, never wheedled out of a mission (something that would get his ass canned, but that wasn’t why he didn’t do it), always followed orders, never fucked up.
The two long-term girlfriends he’d had, he’d treated them like gold. Living with five women, you learned a lot of shit. And he’d given it all and then some to the women he’d claimed. It had been them who’d scraped him off for something better.
So no cheating. No excessive gambling or drinking. Absolutely no drugs. No nights out carousing with his boys and not checking in. No getting up in their shit about how expensive their handbags were or why they couldn’t rinse a damned plate and put it in the dishwasher rather than leaving it in the sink.