Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
It’s time though. I ease my hand from under him ever so gently, to not wake him up and run off to the bathroom for a leak.
I take a shower while I’m there too, and as I clean myself, the tenderness in my hole reminds me of how hungry this model-handsome man was for my ass. Each lick and tease sparked fireworks deep inside, and if he only agrees to rim me again, I’ll massage his feet and fan him whenever he’s tired.
No one’s ever been this passionate with me. I thought maybe that kind of stuff didn’t happen in real life, but Cesar, my savior, made me feel like I’m the hero of a romance book being ravished by some handsome prince whose darkness can be combated through love.
I’m ridiculous.
We’ve only just met.
He’s helping me out of gratitude and surely just likes gangly guys with long legs.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it and give back.
And oh do I want to give back. My foot, while tender, is looking less swollen today, so I’m happy to throw myself into a whirl of cleaning the cabin and preparing the most luscious breakfast I can out of the groceries we’ve got.
After yesterday’s storm, I was expecting to be met by gray clouds and dirty piles of slush, but instead, the sky is blue, and perfect mounds of fresh fluffy snow adorn the driveway.
It’s still over two weeks until Christmas day, but I’m already starting to wonder what I could get Cesar. Since I’ve got nothing, no access to internet, and barely a few bucks to my name, it’s probably my best bet to make something. We might be on the move by then, so starting on any handmade gift now is not such a bad idea, is it?
My mom taught me how to make origami angels and Christmas trees. Those could be arranged into a long ornament if I made enough of them. I could also make a papier mâché bauble, like one of those my family used to make for every Christmas. I’m not sure if it’s a practical gift while being on the road, but maybe we’ll get a van to sleep in, go off-grid, and then we could put such a garland inside.
I imagine Christmas day somewhere in the forests of Canada or Alaska, just the two of us. I could make him French toast in a skillet over a campfire outside as he prepares hot chocolate, and then we’d exchange thoughtful gifts, all to do with what we experienced on the road by that point. Maybe we could even include my family’s old tradition of a Christmas morning snowball fight?
But I’m getting way ahead of myself. I’m not sure what time it is, since we fell asleep early in the morning. Could be midday. Could be three in the afternoon, for all I know.
It doesn’t seem Cesar is anywhere near waking up, so I start with cleanup. With the furnishings so sparse, there isn’t that much to do, and within an hour, the whole cabin (with the exception of the bedroom) has been swiped, dusted, and polished. I used an old magazine to make a simple paper chain, which I draped above the couch, then folded the paper into tree-shaped ornaments.
The sun is heading for the horizon by the time I hear movement in the bedroom.
I’m stunned when I see him in the corridor, because yes, he’s that hot. I thought maybe I just over-exaggerated it in my head, but he most definitely looks like a super soldier. He’s got his sweatpants on, but they sit low on his hips, giving me the most perfect view.
“Good morning! Or afternoon.” I beam at him.
I’m wearing black sweatpants that are a bit on the short side, but at least they don’t pool at my waist, and a blue T-shirt which hugs me. Both these items are probably women’s, but are unisex enough to not make me feel weird. I didn’t find any spare underwear, so I’ve gone commando, but I do have socks.
I added wood to the fire, so it’s nice and toasty inside. Almost like we’re at a couples’ retreat, not trying to evade the law after my murder rampage.
Cesar watches me from the doorway leading out of the main room. “I don’t know either,” he admits with a smile, and my toes curl when his gaze slides down my body. Is he making sure I look good enough in different light?
Maybe I shouldn’t have so much self-doubt, but how can I not, when I’m average, on the side of thin, and he—drop dead gorgeous?
“I’ll make food. How do you like your coffee?” I ask, rising from behind the table. A jolt of pain trails up my ankle, but I manage to hide it from him, because the last thing I want is for him to get nothing in return for all he’s done for me.