Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
A gust of air whooshes from me as I shallowly thrust against her, drawing out the pleasure. My heart thunders, and I wonder if she can feel it with my chest pressed against her back.
Tillie sighs, and I feel her entire body go lax.
“You okay?” I ask as I pet the curls between her legs.
“If by okay, you mean totally destroyed, then yeah… I’m really okay.”
Chuckling, I pull my hand away and Tillie moves out of my embrace. I lie against the pillow and watch her nab my T-shirt off the floor, pulling it over her head. I mourn the loss of seeing her body, which I’ve become very enamored of. I add to my mental to-do list to cover every inch of it with my mouth at some point, which I realize implies I’ve committed to doing this again with her.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder as she walks around the bed, a smile tugging at her lips. “I did promise you breakfast if you fucked me good this morning.”
I give her a playful frown. “Such language, Ms. Marshall.”
Yes, I just did something that was playful, and it wasn’t a fucking chore. Things with Tillie don’t seem hard at all.
She laughs as she walks out of the room. I hear her enter the bathroom and exit a few minutes later. Then I hear the fridge open and a pan being set on the stove.
Rolling out of bed, I grab my boxer briefs and head into the bathroom. When I exit, the smell of bacon cooking makes my stomach rumble.
When I walk into the kitchen and see Tillie at the stove, my dick twitches.
My shirt swallows her so I can’t see her curves, her hair is a wild mass of curls and tangles, and she’s doing nothing more than standing there, quietly making breakfast.
That’s it.
She said last night she was nothing special, and the vision before me right now shouldn’t be anything special enough to make my dick take notice, especially so soon after depleting it.
Yet here you have it.
“Need any help?” I ask so I don’t just stand there and ogle.
She jolts—clearly having been in her own little world—and glances over her shoulder.
And… her jaw drops, her eyes rake slowly down my body, and back up again.
I don’t need to look down at myself to see what she sees. I take excellent care of myself. It’s honed in places, ripped in others. I know the boxer briefs fit like a second skin, and I’m packing.
Fuck if her stare doesn’t make me a little flushed, and I resist the urge to contract my ab muscles, which at this point would just be preening for her benefit.
“Get a good eyeful?” I ask.
She blinks, blushes, and turns back around. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. And no, I don’t need any help. There’s a Keurig over there if you want coffee.”
I walk to the machine and pull a mug off one of the little hooks attached to the side of the cabinet. I brew a cup and take a sip. I like it black.
Through an open doorway into a room off the kitchen, I see an easel set up with a painting. Other paintings have been propped against walls, and there’s a long countertop stacked with tubes of paint, jars of other liquids, brushes, paper, and sponges.
I glance at Tillie as she flips bacon.
Nodding toward the door, I ask, “May I?”
“Sure,” she says easily.
It’s her own personal art studio, and each wall is covered with her work. I assume it’s her work. It’s all stunning—mostly landscapes—done in watercolors. Though I’m not a connoisseur, I do know the difference between oil and watercolor as my parents were big into the arts and our house was a veritable museum.
I move to the painting on the easel—thick, textured paper taped to a thin board propped up. A sparkling lake, rolling hills with spring flowers, and a forest off in the distance. The sun is just rising, and a mist hangs in the air. It has a dreamlike quality to it.
Tillie’s signature is at the bottom in pencil. Next to it, written in swirly cursive, it says “Allegheny Reservoir.”
Jesus, she’s good. Like, she should be showing in galleries and not selling prints of her work online.
Tearing my eyes from the painting, I move around the room and look at the others propped against walls, on spare easels, and along the counter. Framed landscapes hang on the wall, and although they’re watercolors, I can tell they’re not her work. I can’t quite tell what the difference is, but I can tell she didn’t paint them.
Leaning in, I see the artist’s name is Steven Marshall. Most likely her father… she told me he was a painter.
A table at the back of the room holds pencil sketches of buildings scattered about. I flip through them until I come across the blue, grid-lined paper of architectural plans.