Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Ohhh. That felt so good.
“Wait for me, baby doll,” he warned.
She couldn’t. There was no way. Millie bit down on her lip, slowing her movements. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs.
“I’m close, baby,” Spike told her. “Come on my cock.”
Moving her finger faster, it seemed that was all she needed.
He commanded. She obeyed.
Well, some of the time.
Her orgasm hit her hard, making her shake as she heard him groan. He thrust deep and stilled, then drew her up so she was standing with her back pressed against his chest.
“Baby.”
That was all he said.
But really, he didn’t need to say more.
She understood him.
4
Millie felt that familiar wave of nausea rush through her.
She swallowed heavily, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t going to throw up.
She didn’t have time for a migraine right now.
The side of her face was tingling as her vision grew blurry. Meds. She needed her meds.
Were they upstairs?
Holy. Crap.
Why couldn’t she think?
Heaving herself off the sofa, she whimpered as a sharp pain sliced through her head. She’d been finishing off the invitations to her super-duper amazing Easter egg hunt.
This time without the glitter.
Because Spike was a total killjoy.
She’d intended to send them all out today. Spike was going to take them to Reapers to give to the guys and she’d been going to deliver one to Grady, Steele, and Effie.
Although she hadn’t told Spike that part.
She stumbled toward the stairs. Her migraine was coming on fast. Maybe she’d been pushing herself too hard with this Easter egg hunt?
Nah. That was foolish talk.
“Think, Millie,” she muttered to herself.
Oh God.
She was going to vomit. She rushed toward the downstairs bathroom, but didn’t make it in time. Instead, she sank to her knees in the hallway and vomited.
Yucky.
Shuffling away from the vomit, she lay down on her side and put her arms over her face, trying to block out the light.
Spike wasn’t going to be very happy when he got home. He hated when she got migraines.
She heard a low whine and glanced over to see a blurry-looking Mr. Fluffy standing beside her. He had her handbag in his mouth.
Why would he have my handbag? And did he really walk here all the way from the living room? Voluntarily?
Now that was a miracle.
Too bad he didn’t some thumbs so he could call Spike for her.
She really, really wanted her Daddy.
Spike walked into the house.
Instantly, he knew something was wrong. The house was just too quiet.
Which was very unlike Millie. There was always music or chatter or laughter. Even when she was by herself. Because she was usually talking away to the dog as though she thought he could understand her.
Hell, most of the time, Mr. Fluffy wasn’t even awake. Spike had never known a living creature to sleep that much.
The vet had done all types of tests on him.
And the diagnosis?
An extreme version of laziness.
“Millie?” he called out in a panic. “Millie, where are you?”
A whine reached his ears.
“Mr. Fluffy?”
Another whine. Fuck. Spike ran toward the sound, coming to a stop as he saw Millie lying on her side in the hallway. There was vomit on the floor next to her and Mr. Fluffy was lying on his tummy, watching her.
Strangely, her handbag was by the dog’s feet.
“Shit, baby doll,” he murmured, coming closer and crouching next to her.
With a shaking hand, he reached out to touch her. She let out a small whimper.
“Daddy,” she whispered.
“Baby, what is it? Your head?”
“Yes.”
Shit. She needed her medication.
Mr. Fluffy let out another whine and nudged her handbag.
What the . . . then it struck him.
Had Mr. Fluffy gotten her handbag because he knew that her meds were in there?
Had he somehow realized that she had a migraine?
Nah. That was just crazy thinking. Although as Spike looked into the dog's eyes . . . he kind of thought that maybe it wasn’t so crazy.
“I’m going to pick you up, baby doll, and carry you upstairs.”
“Can’t. Move.”
“We have to move you. You can’t stay here.”
“Sick.”
“I know you are.”
“Sorry.”
Why was she apologizing? This wasn’t her fault.
She couldn’t help having a migraine. If anything, this was his fault.
He should have been here. Should have been watching her. Making sure that she rested and didn’t do too much.
Shit . . . it was probably all this excitement over her party.
“You have nothing to apologize for, baby doll,” he told her fiercely. “Daddy is going to pick you up, though. And carry you upstairs.”
Another whimper.
God. He felt awful for her. If he could’ve taken this pain on, he would have. Sliding his arm under her legs and around her back, Spike lifted her up, cradling her against his chest.
Another cry that nearly broke his heart.
Trying hard not to jostle her, he headed up the stairs and into their bedroom, where he laid her on the bed. Then he rushed into the attached bathroom to grab her medication. She kept some up here and some in her handbag.