Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Michaela emerges from the shower in a cloud of soap and humidity. She wears a purple bonnet of some kind over her curls to prevent them from getting wet and has an equally purple bath-sheet wrapped around her body…and nothing else. She pads over to my side, practically naked, and leans against my shoulder. “Smells amazing.”
“Yes, you do,” I blurt out.
She giggles. “Not me, you clown. The food.”
“I would rather taste you than noodles,” I continue eagerly. “Is that bad?”
With a pat on my arm, Michaela just smiles. “Patience, my sweet Aithar. Patience. You’ll get your turn soon enough. How about you serve up food while I get dressed?”
“Of course.” I watch her as she saunters to her bedroom, unable to look away. I am entranced by the sway of her hips, the rolling gait of her body as she moves. Has any female ever walked with such grace? Such sheer sensuality? How is it that she makes walking across the room sexy? My mouth goes dry.
Patience. Patience.
I serve up two bowls and set them on her table, along with fresh cups of tea, and I sit and wait. I admit to myself that I’m nervous. After we eat, what will she do with me? I’ve never been used for sex before. How does one proceed? How do I let her know if I have boundaries? Do I even have boundaries? I doubt I do, but I suspect she might and I need to know them.
When Michaela returns from her room, she wears a simple, comfortable gown and no shoes. I’m dying to examine her charming bare feet, but I suspect that might be unwelcome. Her thick, curly hair is pulled up and clipped away from her neck, and she looks relaxed and soft as she joins me at the table. She lifts a cup of tea and smells it, her eyes closing with appreciation. “You made all this? It looks great.”
I want to please you. I want you to smile at me. I want you to exclaim over my food and fall madly in love with me and I will happily make you noodles every day of my existence. I think all these things and say none of them. “Enjoy.”
We eat and as we eat, I watch her. She does not use sticks but the human “fork” for her utensil and twirls it in the noodles before lifting a skein of it to her mouth. I eat, too, but I do not notice the taste of it. My focus is entirely on Michaela. We talk, of course. We talk about butter, and the flavors she is going to try when she gets supplies. She asks me about the cantina and what I plan to do. She asks me about the ship and about Lady Ruth and Lord Straik and how they came to be married. She asks more questions than she answers, but I am happy to let her control the conversation. Once we are both done with our food, I take the bowls and head to the kitchen to clean them.
Michaela trails after me, surprised. “You didn’t leave a mess in the kitchen.”
“Should I have? I thought it would be rude.” I’d cleaned the kitchen as I worked, and now I wonder if I have made a misstep of some kind. “Is it a human custom to leave a mess behind after cooking? I do not mean to insult. Ruthie said that some humans belch to show their appreciation for food, but I did not do that either. Should I belch for my own food? It seems presumptuous.” I’m growing worried that I’ve affronted her when that is the last thing I want. No wonder no one wishes to date me. I am offending them.
Michaela puts a hand on my chest. “Whoa there, calm down, Aithar.” She smiles up at me, and my anxiety melts away. “You don’t need to burp, and you don’t need to apologize. I was just surprised that you were cleaning up after yourself. I didn’t expect it, but it’s nice to see.”
Why would she not expect it? “I am your guest. That means I do not impose.”
Her smile grows broader. “You really are too much.”
“I am trying not to be,” I tell her earnestly. “If you need me to change—”
“Do not change a thing. If women don’t like how enthusiastic you are, that’s their problem.” Her finger trails down the front of my tunic, her fingertip hot against my bare skin. “I like your enthusiasm.”
“Kef me, I’m so glad.”
She chuckles at my relief. “Though maybe just wear your own clothes next time. This doesn’t seem very comfortable.” With pinched fingers, she shakes the fabric against my chest. “You’re showing a lot of male cleavage.”
I glance down with a rueful smile. “It’s odd to have so much room up top and for my trou to fit so tight that I’m losing circulation.”