Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 19577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 98(@200wpm)___ 78(@250wpm)___ 65(@300wpm)
Bodhrri's expression brightens, as if I've said just the thing that pleases him most. "It is a lucky day, then. Guess what they had in stock at the store in Port?"
I gasp, my mouth watering. "No! Pickles?"
He nods. "The farm that makes them brought back a fresh batch, so I bought all of them."
I moan with excitement, pressing my hands to my mouth. "You did?"
"I did," he agrees, smug with pleasure.
I could kiss him right now. Pickles and tart things have been a huge craving of mine over the last few weeks, and every time I go into Port, there's never much to choose from. A week ago I found a jar of pickled vegetables for sale, but it was the last one. I tried to pace myself but ended up eating the entire thing in the space of a day. My mouth keeps watering and I have the urge to cry out of sheer happiness. "You didn't have to, Bodhrri."
"Of course I did. You crave it, and I will make it happen." He gets to his feet and heads to the kitchen pantry, and I see several jars of pickled veggies stockpiled, and the sight fills me with glee. He pulls one jar out and returns to my side, opening it and holding it out for me. "You should lack for nothing."
"You're spoiling me," I say, taking a spear of pickled root and crunching on it. Oh god, it's the best thing ever. I exclaim again and devour the entire thing while he watches me, eyes warm.
But then his expression changes and he tilts his head, eyeing my legs. "Where are your shoes? Your feet are bare."
I pluck another pickle from the jar and bite down, closing my eyes in pure bliss. It's not the same as an earth pickle, but gosh it's close. "Feet are swollen today. My shoes don't fit."
Bodhrri makes an unhappy noise. "You should have said something."
Opening my eyes, I glance up at him as I polish off the second pickle. "Why? The doctor said it's normal. Happens to a lot of pregnant ladies." I know because I sent a comm to him the first time it happened to me and he reassured me that everything was fine.
"Would it help if you elevated them?" he asks, concern written all over his feline features.
I genuinely have no idea if it would or not, but I hate to see the worry on his face. "It can't hurt, I imagine."
Bodhrri gestures that I should stand. "Get up. Let us make you comfortable on the couch. You can eat more pickles there."
Well, I don't need more convincing for that. I let him help me stand and we move to the couch. He brings the jar of pickles and sets it on the little table next to my end of the couch. Then he sits on the other end and indicates I should bring my feet to him. Is he...serious? "What are you doing?" I ask. "You said I should elevate them, right?"
"Yes, but I can rub them, too. Try to get your blood flowing. I thought it might be helpful. Would it bother you?"
Mutely, I shake my head and eat another pickle. Would it bother me? Absolutely not. Will it turn me on an insane amount? I mean...probably. "It's not necessary..."
"I would love to rub your feet," Bodhrri says. "I love taking care of you and the children."
He's not real. This all has to be a hallucination, a fever dream brought on by pickles and pregnancy. Because Bodhrri seems too good to be true. What man loves to dote on his very pregnant employer who is puffing up by the day? I should take advantage of this, I realize, but I feel shy. "What if my feet are ugly?"
"I am not judging them for their beauty. I am going to rub them to ease you."
I sigh, because he's right and I'm just being silly. "Okay, fine." Gingerly, I lift one foot into the air and hold it out to him.
"By the stars!" He recoils in horror.
I jerk back, just in time to see him grinning, and then I give his arm a shove with my bare, swollen foot. "You jerk! That's not funny!"
"It's kind of funny," he says, laughing.
I'm laughing, too, because it's broken the weird tension we've had between us. "I told you human feet are ugly," I retort, and put my other foot in his lap, too. "And mine are swollen to boot."
"How can you tell they're ugly if you can't see them?" he teases, and I chuckle all over again. He takes one foot in his hands and caresses it, then begins to rub.
And I melt like a puddle of goo. I suck in a breath as he drags his fingers over my swollen arch and kneads it gently. I didn't realize that they were aching, but his touch makes my foot feel so much better. Or maybe it's that I'm now irrevocably turned on and everything needs touching. I bite back a moan as he strokes my foot and lightly skims his thumb down my sole. "Feel better?" he asks. "Or do you have suggestions for how I should touch you?"