Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I listen. I don’t rush her. My girl needs to let it out, and I’m going to let her.
“They think I’m insane,” she goes on, voice flat. “They think you’re a monster. And a pervert. And that I’m a whore who’s never going to get a real job or have a real family because I do what I do online.”
She looks at me then, waiting for judgment. There isn’t any.
I put my hand on her cheek. “You did the right thing. You were honest. You stood up for yourself. That’s all anyone can do.”
She shakes her head, hair fanning across the pillow. “I’m a disaster, Jack. I’ve never felt this horrible before. I wish I could just disappear.”
I lean down, brush my lips over her forehead. “You’re not a disaster. You’re a beautiful young woman finding her way in the world, and you’re safe here. You hear me? You’re home.”
She gulps a little, the sound half laugh, half sob. “Your house is so clean it’s making me anxious. Are you going to make me mop the floors as penance?”
“No, but you can try to out-cook me tomorrow,” I say with a smile at the corner of my lips. “Winner gets the good coffee mug.”
This time she does laugh, a real one. “You’re such a dork.”
I shrug. “Takes one to know one.”
The mood stabilized a bit, Eliza pulls the covers up, nestles under them, and pats the bed beside her. I slip in, shoes off, and she gloms on like a barnacle. Her softness is pressed against me, those big breasts soft and pillowy, and for the first time since she arrived, her breathing slows.
It’s dark but not silent. The house creaks as it cools, the fridge cycles, and somewhere, a distant train moans. Eliza nestles her face in my chest and just breathes.
We lay there, not talking. She clings to me, a fistful of my t-shirt locked in her hand. I’m a big guy, but I feel like a blanket draped over a feather. My heart beats slow and steady, and eventually her pulse matches it. In the dark, I can smell her shampoo, and the faintest tang of leftover salt from her tears.
When her breathing evens out, I watch the shapes of the room: the shadow of the C-130 on the ceiling, the shelf of aviation books, the stray hair tie already left on my nightstand. But it’s different now. With Eliza here, there’s an air of the feminine, and I like it. I love it, actually.
I reach over, cover her hand with mine, and squeeze. Even in sleep, she squeezes back.
I don’t sleep much. Too many years of bad news arriving at night. But tonight I stay perfectly still, heartbeat slow and even, and keep vigil as my beautiful girl rests. There’s nothing to hurt her. Just the slow, warm weight of her body against mine, the feel of her hair on my arm, the knowledge that she’s here, alive and real and in my bed.
She’s safe. For now. And I’m not letting anyone take that from her.
When I finally do drift off, it’s with her wrapped around me, face pressed to my throat, her thighs splayed and soft, unconsciously pressed against my hardness. And even in sleep, I can feel the shift—like the plane has cleared the storm, and we’re finally flying level, together, into whatever comes next.
Morning sunlight makes me blink, and I yawn mightily before opening my eyes. My reward is the pale, perfect curve of Eliza’s back tangled in my sheets. Her hair streams across the pillow like molten gold, her big breasts visible from just above the sheet. During the night, she must have gotten up and gotten nude because I can glimpse soft ivory curves, and the thatch of darkness at the vee of her thighs. But Eliza’s breathing even and deep, sweet and calm.
I try to move without waking her, but she’s a heat-seeking missile. As soon as I shift, she moans, and then presses against my hardness. The effect is so instantly domestic it makes my chest ache. For a second, I just lie there and watch her, memorizing the way the sunlight webs across her bare thigh, the way her ass peeks out, round like a succulent peach.
But this isn’t the time to seduce my beautiful girl because she needs rest, and lots of it after the events of last night. So moving slowly, I slip out of bed and hit the kitchen, where I attack breakfast like a mission. Bacon first—thick cut, laid out in strips on my favorite cast iron. The sizzle fills the air. I grind coffee, dark as diesel, and the smell alone is enough to banish every bad dream I’ve ever had. Toast next, because Eliza loves toast, even if she calls my Ezekiel “prison bread.” I line it all up on the counter like rations, then go back for eggs, a double batch, heavy on the butter.