Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 237(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 237(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Catching him watching me only makes him more aroused, and I can see his thick manhood actually flexing for me under his scrubs.
His low growl, which seems to be a permanent thing with him now, fills the room, playing on my own growing need for him.
Resonating through the floor, it seems. Instead, it’s working through the chair, right onto my swollen clit, which feels like it’ll burst if he touches me right now.
Keeping his arousal in plain sight, Foxx sets to work in his kitchen and shows me he’s no slouch in any room.
Emergency, qualified surgeon, or chef, he easily and quickly prepares us both a gourmet breakfast that Mrs. Peters would be proud of.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Foxx
Fixing us both something to eat after a bit of a tour of the place, I’m halfway to the table when I notice I’ll need another chair.
The two I keep out are both being used to prop Mandy up.
So setting our plates down and telling her it’s okay to start without me, I go in search of another chair so we can eat in the kitchen.
It’s too cold for her on the balcony, and she looks just perfect sitting with one of her smooth, thick legs propped up. The other bent naturally as she sits.
“Be right back…,” I promise her and move to the lounge where I know there’s just the chair I need.
The door chiming isn’t what I expect, and it annoys me once I’m halfway back to the kitchen.
So much so, I almost ignore it but figuring I get so few callers, I reason I’d better see who it is.
It’s the valet, just letting me know I’m parked in front of the elevator still and if I would like him to park my car.
I readily agree and thank him, handing him the keys.
“Keep them downstairs, Toby,” I insist. “I’d prefer not to be disturbed today,” I tell him as nicely as I can without sounding too harsh.
Once I’ve closed the door, I pick up the chair I need and start back toward the kitchen.
Kinda feeling like I was a bit rude to Toby, but Jesus, it’s only the elevator designated for my floor. It’s not like I’m blocking anyone else’s entry.
The sound of plates crashing makes me forget everything and sprint back to the kitchen, and I see Mandy at an odd angle on the floor. Her plates are in pieces all around her.
“I was just trying to…,” she trails off, but I’m already there, skidding in food and picking her up like a lost lamb.
She starts to sob, and I hold her closer, stroking her hair.
“I was… just trying to get some juice for you… to help,” she whimpers, and my heart melts in my chest.
“Oh, Mandy, I’m sorry…,” I groan, realizing I can’t let her out of my sight. Not even for a minute until she’s stronger on that ankle.
“I’ve ruined everything,” she croaks, and lifting her face to mine with my fingers under her chin, I shake my head.
“It was a silly little accident,” I tell her. “Don’t worry about it. Are you alright, though?” I ask her, feeling a tightness in my stomach I haven’t had since my medical exams.
“Are you hurt?” I ask her firmly, snapping her out of her tears but relieved when she sniffs and thinks for a moment.
“I’m alright… just a klutz,” she says, offering to help me clean up.
I click my tongue and keeping a firm grip on her, I move out of the kitchen and back down to the lounge.
“Do you always carry your patients around?” she asks me, half-joking, but I sense it’s a loaded question.
I pause in the hallway, looking down. My eyes filled with my own questions.
“Just… the nurse in the hospital said you were just playing with me. Like it was a joke or something,” she murmurs, looking away from me for the first time in a way I don’t like.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I’ve only carried you, Mandy,” I assure her, “Oh, and a couple of accident patients over the years. Dragging them from burning car wrecks, that sort of thing,” I add casually.
I do make her smile, though, as she gently punches my shoulder.
“You did not,” she teases me. “Did you?” she adds, noticing my expression hasn’t changed.
“I did, but I didn’t carry them like this,” I remind her, letting some of my fingers tickle her.
I’m grateful when they touch the softness of her breasts floating on either side of her chest.
My cream and sugar… I’ve carried her all the way home.
“I’ll clean up too,” I assure her, shifting the topic away from her doubt or what some nurse said.
It is true, though. I’m known for being clinical and professional. I can smile and empathize with patients, but I don’t have a reputation for lifting up pretty girls and carrying them home.