Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Yes, trolls are green and slimy, but every one of them is hung like Commander Kate. And rumor has it, troll men know what to do with those chubby green lizards between their legs…
The commander’s “lizard” is also highly skilled, and not the slightest bit green or slimy. If he weren’t my superior, he would be the perfect man.
And just like that, as if the architects of the cosmos are eavesdropping on my thoughts, I duck into my tent and come face-to-face with Commander Kate.
Sitting on the edge of my bed…
Waiting.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I protest, at the same moment he says, “I know I shouldn’t be here.”
We exhale ragged laughs.
Twin laughs.
Like the twin flames that burn in our hearts.
And loins…
“Toss it all,” I say, flinging my flask to the ground. “I don’t care if—”
His mouth covers mine, and we fall onto my furs in a tangle of eager limbs, tearing at each other’s armor.
My leather vest hits the ground, and my linen shirt is about to follow it, when—
My alarm screams from the nightstand.
I groan. Wince. Then groan again as the volume kicks up, the way I programmed it to do, so I wouldn’t loll about in bed being depressed until noon. Again.
I slap at it, miss it, slap again, and finally, mercifully, the air falls quiet.
I creak my eyes open, peeking at the clock.
10:01 AM on a Sunday in New Orleans, not the Algarvian Base Camp. My bedroom, not a command tent. No furs, no Commander Kate, just my flamingo pajamas, and an ache between my legs so intense it borders on pathological. All because Dean drove home to be a good dad, who doesn’t bang his teammates’ “little sisters,” and I came upstairs to mourn the loss of a steamy night, I’d been so certain was a sure thing.
But it wasn’t a sure thing.
Sob.
And yes, I came on Dean’s hand, but that only made me want the real thing even more. To want it so much that my brain decided to whip up some kinky troll penis dreams featuring Dean as my foxy commander.
I have warrior princess dreams all the time—a hazard of reading too many fantasy novels—but they’ve never had troll penis in them before. Or much man penis, to be honest. My dreams are usually G-rated.
But not this morning.
If only I hadn’t woken up before Dean spanked me while he fucked me hard from behind. If only he’d finished the job in my dream, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling so unfinished right now.
I press my thighs together, but that only makes the ache between them even worse. Soon, my clit is pulsing out an S.O.S., while my vagina gently weeps into my cotton panties. It suggests, in a tearful voice, that I should write a song about it, a la The Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” but about a tortured, miserable vagina that no one loves enough to touch. Not even the woman it belongs to…
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Fine.”
I slip my hand beneath my waistband, close my eyes, and try to appease my weepy puss. I know my body. I know exactly what angle, what pressure, what rhythm gets me there in under three minutes. I've been doing this since I was a teenager. It’s muscle memory at this point.
But my fingers aren’t his fingers. They’re not big enough, and they don’t come attached to a man who’s sexy and warm and smells like heaven. I rub and circle, but every time I get close, the wave wimps out, refusing to break. Not without something more serious than my hand, anyway, and my vibrator is all the way across the room in a bathroom drawer, and I’m too annoyed to come now, anyway.
I exhale a frustrated breath and glare up at the ceiling.
This is all Dean’s fault. He ruined my perfectly functional solo sex life by giving me a taste of the real thing. One bright, beautiful taste, only to turn tail and run away in his stupid truck with his stupid morals to do stupid things like take care of his kids during a snowstorm.
Fine, none of that is stupid, but it feels like such a waste.
“We could have made magic together, Nutasha,” I whisper, pulling my stuffed squirrel into my arms.
There, there, love. Don’t fret yourself. I’m here. I’m always here, Nutasha P. Bettersquirrel says in her cozy English accent.
In my head, she sounds like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast, the one I used to wish was my mom when I was a kid.
The thought reminds me of Karen’s fake Irish accent.
Of how far people will go to make their dreams come true.
And of my final meeting for the nanny gig in just a few short hours…
It’s not my “dream” to be a live-in childcare provider, but the Hendersons seem like a great couple, and I’m excited for my fresh start. I’ve never been a full-time nanny before, but I have loads of daycare experience. I’m great with kids, and the Hendersons are jazzed for me to teach Gus how to read sheet music. He’s only five, but when it comes to a musical education, it’s never too early to start.