Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
And yet, these facts only make me want to ravish her on the closest horizontal surface even more.
Nix was right.
I’m fucked.
At this rate, it’s a matter of days—hours, even—until I cross a line, I promised myself I wouldn’t cross.
I’ve already gotten way too close for comfort.
Like this morning, when Makena was up at the crack of dawn, making coffee in a t-shirt that barely covered her ass, and I crutched my way into the kitchen to grab a juice before starting my “arms only” cardio routine. She reached up to grab a mug off the shelf. I caught a flash of lacy white panties, proceeded to pitch a tent in my gym shorts, and had to turn tail and hobble back to my room before I embarrassed myself, like some prepubescent horndog.
I am not prepubescent, but I am a horndog.
A horndog, who hasn’t fucked anyone in nearly a year, a tragic personal worst. At first, I was on that “start the season off strong” grind, then I was on the “if I can’t fuck my sexy former babysitter, I don’t want to fuck anyone” Stubborn Train to No Pussyville.
Currently, I’m in a borderline abusive relationship with my own hand every time I catch Makena in downward dog on her yoga mat or wiggling her ass to whatever’s on her headphones as she harvests herbs in my garden to whip into something incredible for dinner.
I want her to harvest my herbs.
Or, even better, whip me up for dinner.
I want it so bad, even her ear-scarring karaoke stylings make me a little thicker.
“Wow, she’s really going for it, isn’t she?” Nix observes, wincing as Mack hits a note that probably has dogs howling for mercy in the neighborhood behind the strip mall.
“That’s my girl,” I say, lifting my glass in a silent toast as she reaches the chorus and her hips really get in on the action.
She may be tone-deaf, but holy hell, can she dance. She dances as if she’s possessed by the music, like her blood burns with the need to move. Every hip swivel is an act of defiance, celebration, seduction, and liberation, all tangled together, and I am positive she would ride my cock with the same magnificent abandon.
Positive.
And it haunts me.
So bad…
“She’s glorious,” I murmur.
Blue, massive and silent beside me, just nods. He gets it. With all the meditating he does, he’s practically a Zen master by now, and Zen masters know something divine when they see it.
She is divine, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t the tiniest bit relieved when she’s finished murdering Duran Duran’s legacy and shouts, rock-star style, “Thank you, Metairie! You’ll be glad to hear that I will not be up here again tonight!”
“Thank God!” an old man nursing a Gecko Glitter Bomb shouts from the bar.
“I think that gave me a fresh case of PTSD,” another old-timer in a POW hat heckles from the line to donate blood.
“And a concussion!” someone else hollers.
“Be nice or I’ll put my name in for ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ you filthy animals,” Makena says, flipping the peanut gallery the bird. The crowd erupts in laughter and drunken applause. She takes an exaggerated bow and hops off stage with more grace than someone who’s had two Trash Pandas and a sip of Blue’s Angry Goose should possess.
“Well, that was fun,” she says breathlessly as she slides into the booth beside me. “I mean, for me. Sorry the rest of you had to hear that.”
“It was brave all right,” Nix says, toasting her with his stank ass drink.
It wafts too close to my nose, and I fight the urge to gag.
I hold up my hand, shooing him away. “Fuck, man, keep that shit to yourself. What were you thinking, ordering that?”
“That Pepé Le Pew Pew was a funny-sounding drink,” he says, taking a sip of the black poison still lightly smoking in his goblet, thanks to whatever dark magic Cobb worked on it behind the bar.
“Pepé Le Pew was a skunk,” I remind him. “You didn’t stop to think your drink might end up stinking up the joint?”
Nix shakes his head pleasantly. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t think even a weird dive bar would serve you something this foul. But it’s not nearly as awful as it smells. It’s actually pretty tasty. The more I drink it, the more I like it.”
Makena grins. “Classic Brass Monkey. Cobb makes the drinks so strong, you have no choice but to fall in love. Even with the disgusting ones.”
“Yeah,” Nix agrees, nodding as he takes another sip. “Though I kind of wish I knew what was in it. Like…just to be sure I’m not ingesting actual poison.”
“Charcoal vodka, black currant liqueur, a drop of roasted garlic oil, maple syrup, and something brined at the bottom,” Makena rattles off, making all our brows shoot up.