Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52975 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
The texts I send her are glossed over; most of her responses include the word fine. It’s fine. She’s fine. Just busy. All good.
Bullshit. I asked her to carve out an hour for me this weekend so we could talk, and she said she couldn’t because she’s having an all-weekend sleepover with Mara and Suki at Mara’s apartment.
Which leaves me home alone with Bruce. I came so close to texting Andi, the nurse I hook up with from time to time. She has been clear from the start that she doesn’t want a relationship or feelings, which makes her perfect for me. When I go over to her place, we get right to it and then I leave.
I had my phone in hand, but for some reason, I couldn’t do it. I’m a tightly wound ball of sexual frustration, yeah, but being on the outs with Lainey is killing me. She’s meant to have a bright smile on her face, not a closed-off expression of resignation.
I’m also pissed as fuck at Shane. How fucking dare that douchebag play video games on weekends instead of coming to see Lainey? Cleveland is a blast in the summer. There are food festivals, concerts and farmers’ markets.
Bruce is sitting by the treat jar, his not-so-subtle way of asking for one. I take out a couple and give them to him, scratching his ears. Maybe I’ll take him for a hike. He’d like that.
When I start training camp, my full-time dog sitter, River, will move into the guesthouse in my backyard. He’s a hippie nomad who backpacks during my offseason. He walks Bruce three times a day. And I pay him well for it.
I should walk him more in the summer. Poor dude probably dreams about River when he’s gone.
“Okay, Bruce. Daddy’s gotta take care of a little business and then we’ll do something you’ll like. I can’t say the word because you’ll go apeshit, but it starts with a W. Cool?”
He swishes his tail back and forth.
I leave him in the kitchen and go upstairs with my phone. I can’t handle my perpetual erection any longer. I had to wear a cup during filming earlier to keep my dick locked down.
Stormi will be able to help me resolve this.
My teammate Lucien first introduced me to Stormi, a content creator with a massive following who calls herself a “meateorologist.”
We all make fun of Lucien’s fixation on Stormi because he’s open about being a premium paid member of her site who beats off to her videos daily. He said he liked to hammer on it every morning in high school by watching a hot local weather forecaster, so Stormi is his dream woman.
She gives fake weather forecasts that always end with her getting herself off. They’re mostly funny to me, but I’m in a desperate state here, and I won’t be laughing today.
I go into my bathroom, grab a few tissues, and drop my shorts and underwear.
When I start her latest video, she appears on screen in a tight, hot-pink blazer and skirt, with nothing on beneath the blazer. The one button it has is fighting for its life as her massive tits stretch the fabric. Her long hair is loose around her shoulders and she’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses.
“Thanks, Tom. Stormi St. James here with today’s forecast.” Her voice is breathy, her plump lips painted bright red. “It’s going to be hot today. So very, very hot.”
I lean my phone on a cologne bottle on my bathroom counter and wrap my palm around my dick. I’m not looking for anything elaborate—I just need to get off.
Stormi points at a weather map on a giant screen, the outline of a storm drawn over it shaped like a massive boner.
“Hold on to your headboards, ladies, because tropical storm Dick is bearing down hard. It’s going to give us such a pounding.” She slides a finger down one of her breasts, pulling her blazer open. “Oh. The forecast for the next hour is wet. It’s soaking wet.”
She cups her breasts in her hands, pushing them together. I stroke myself, an uninvited thought of Lainey doing this to her breasts popping into my head and making me punch my brows together.
What the fuck? Stormi is the opposite of sweet, brilliant Lainey. I’m a bastard for picturing that.
She does have really nice tits, though. Round C cups that look damn good in a T-shirt.
Stormi pulls her skirt up a few inches, spreading her feet farther apart. “Oh my God. We’re going to get six to nine inches. Six to nine desperately needed inches.”
I close my eyes and picture Lainey curled up in bed, wearing a modest short-sleeved T-shirt and shorts. Lightweight, white fabric. I sneak into her room and curl up behind her, my erection pressing against her ass. She wakes up with a start but then snuggles back against me, telling me how good I feel.