Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
After a rigorous sniff, she moans like my skin is slathered in bacon lard. “I’m so hungry that my stomach is eyeing my intestines like they’re knotted with gnocchi.” Her eyes are on me, lustful and starving. “Take that as your warning. If you want to make it through the night uneaten, put on a shirt.”
While laughing like the possibility of being eaten by her is disgusting, I walk us to the kitchen. She’s so weightless I’m tempted to hold her against me with one arm like my mother did my little brother while moving around the kitchen, preparing me something to eat. The only reason I don’t is because she needs to watch me open each article of food to trust me enough to eat it.
I need her lucid enough to pry information out of her that I need to make Mrs. Richler regret the day she tried to play me for a fool.
I’d also hate for anything to compromise the curves that haven’t left my head for a second over the past two days.
Angel’s nostrils flare as the scent of salty meat filters into the air. “Mm. They do packaged pastrami at the deli now?”
I nod before inconspicuously adjusting the crotch of my trousers. I’ve never heard a more provocative noise. “You’d be amazed at what people will do for the right amount of coin.”
Ignoring how her excited expression switches to miffed as fast as mine, I drag a knife through the Cyrovac seal, dangle four slices of pastrami meat in front of my mouth, and then tear through it with my teeth.
Angel watches one-half of our shared ingredient slide down my throat before her eyes lower to the bread rolls sealed in a plain white bag.
“The bakery owner’s note said you’d know her signature, so if I want to assure you that the goods haven’t been tainted, I should show it to you.” I show her the note scribbled across the seal keeping two bedrolls fresh, before piercing them with the tip of my knife.
“Take them for every O they’re willing to give.”
—Mrs. Anderson
“I feel like there’s a story behind her slogan, and it is only brought out for certain members of Ravenshoe.”
Angel’s smile slows down my sandwich-making skills, proving I’m not as good at multitasking as I once believed. “There is…” She flashes me a smirk that has me fumbling like an idiot. “But I’m not a girl who kisses and tells.”
I stiffen like a virgin.
Angel’s response is on the opposite end of the spectrum.
“Not like that.” She roars in laughter. “Harlow is married.” Compared to her shout, her next sentence is closer to a whisper. “And I’m not interested in girls.”
I hit her with a stupid wink, feigning this isn’t the first time we’ve been genuinely cordial. “I guess opposites do attract.”
I drink in her silent Haha! before slicing open the bread rolls and nudging my head to the refrigerator now stacked with food. I couldn’t get a single delivery confirmation with a before-Christmas date until I gave them Angel’s address. Then offers for immediate dispatch were handed over left, right, and center.
Again, it announced that I had picked the wrong team to side with when I landed in Ravenshoe.
“Butter?”
“No. I’m too hungry to wait.” Angel leans over the counter, snatches up a bread roll, and slaps it with a hefty chunk of pastrami before ripping her teeth through the barely closed chunk of carbs.
I’ll never eat anything bread-related again without getting hard when a moan rumbles up her chest. It is the exact noise I imagine she’d make while accepting my dick between her pouty lips, and it has me suddenly no longer hungry for food or answers.
“This is so good.”
Another bite.
Another prolonged chew.
Another aching throb pulsating through my cock.
Who knew something as simple as eating could be so damn sexy?
“Huh?” I ask, forcing my eyes from Angel’s lips when the voice pushing me to the brink of cardiac arrest trickles through my ears. “Did you say something?”
With a touch of a smile, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before asking, “Are you not eating?”
“Yeah… ah… I’m planning to. I just prefer condiments with my meat.”
Angel watches my stalk to the fridge as she crosses her heart. “The butter is still in date. You have my word. I’ll never recover from a summer at my grandmother’s country estate.” She takes another bite before talking around the massive chunk, too famished from not eating for twenty-four hours to remember basic eating etiquette. “I kept telling my mom that the butter tasted weird. She didn’t believe me… until half her toast was buttered with mold.” When I screw up my face, she laughs a crummy chuckle. “Yep! That’s how out-of-date the butter was. The bottom half of the tub was pure penicillin.” With one truth, another always follows. “I put powdered milk into the jug to make you think it was out of date.” I don’t get a chance to reply. “And I didn’t know they would make the dishes that hot. I wanted them to add a slight tingle to your backside, not have hemorrhoid-removing capabilities.”