Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 74366 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74366 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Breakfast. Laine will need breakfast. She’ll need her clothes. She’ll need taking back home, where she belongs.
Still, I can enjoy her just a little, just enough to get my blood pumping when I think back on her beautiful, innocent smile later this evening.
A bit of harmless fun never hurt anyone.
Laine
Jane’s bed is really comfortable. Her room looks so warm and cosy as the light breaks through the gauzy curtains. I stretch out, kick back the sheets, relaxing quite happily until I remember with a thud that Nick heard me playing with myself last night.
Shit.
My heart races at the thought of facing him. How ungrateful can I possibly be? Taking advantage of his kind hospitality by playing with myself in his daughter’s bedroom? In his daughter’s pink bedsheets? Cringe doesn’t even come close.
I bite my lip, think things through, and there’s nothing else for it. I just need to get it over with. Smile and face him and hope he isn’t too mad with me. I can’t bear the thought of a man like Nick being mad with me. Disappointed in me.
I grab Jane’s robe from the back of the door and trace my finger over the DaDDy writing on her picture. She’s so lucky.
I make sure I’m wrapped up tight before I open the door, check myself in the dressing table mirror and smooth my wispy hair into some kind of order. I look so young in the morning light, in this room, as though I’ve regressed to being a little girl again.
The thought feels like warm marshmallows in my brain.
I hold my breath as I press down the door handle. Here we go. Now or never.
Maybe he isn’t even up yet. Maybe he’s already up and gone, leaving my clothes in a pile with nothing but a get out of my house, you dirty little bitch message waiting for me.
I hope not.
I hear the water as soon as the door is ajar. The sound is much stronger than it is at my house, our shower is barely more than a trickle at best. I step out onto the landing and my tummy lurches as I see that the bathroom is opposite. The door is open, just a little bit. I can see a mirrored bathroom cabinet on the wall, all steamed up. A black towelling robe is in a heap on the floor. My breath hitches at the thought of him in there, the thought of him naked under the water.
For the first time in my life I don’t want to be a virgin anymore. I want to be confident, like a sex vixen. One of those girls like Kelly Anne who can go after what she wants. If Kelly Anne were here she’d ditch the fluffy pink dressing gown and stalk in there naked. Flash him a smile and a hello there and climb straight in after him.
Hell, I’m nothing like Kelly Anne, and even if I were, a man like Nick isn’t going to want a silly little girl like me. I wouldn’t even know what I was doing.
He probably dates businesswomen types, older ladies with hot glasses and tight buns, and a wicked smile. Women who can talk politics with him over coffee and talk dirty with him between the sheets. The thought of Nick talking dirty makes my skin prickle.
I wonder again if he makes the kind of noises I’ve heard coming from Mum’s bedroom.
I try to pull myself together, decide that it’s probably better to go and wait in Jane’s room until he’s finished, but I don’t. I’m in that strange place again, where everything feels surreal, and my feet are moving on their own, tiptoe steps so careful as I inch my way across the landing. Just a little further. I just want to see a little bit more…
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I can’t stop myself.
I don’t want to stop myself.
I keep my eyes on the tiles as I edge closer. They are those expensive kind, like those spa hotels have. I went to one once for Kelly Anne’s birthday, just for a swim, but I couldn’t stop staring at everything. It was so beautiful, so grand. Nick’s house is like that. He has one of those modern basins, one of the big ceramic bowls that sits on top of tiles, not like the tired old sink we have at mine. He has golden-brown towels over one of those fancy metal radiators. They match the colour of the bathroom perfectly. He’s so stylish.
I think of those towels touching his skin, think of him rubbing himself down when he’s finished, and my eyes creep further in, my toes edging closer to the doorway. I can feel the steam on my face.
It feels nice.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I can’t even believe I’m doing this.