Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Now it’s the middle of the night. The sense of never knowing the exact time is wearing on me, too. By the time I give up the fight and stop trying to fall asleep, there’s faint birdsong coming from outside. We must be getting close to morning.
If it wasn’t for the noise coming from somewhere else on this floor, I wouldn’t get out of bed and go to the door. I wouldn’t knock or call his name. “Enzo?” I jiggle the doorknob, which of course, doesn’t do anything but make more noise. When I don’t get an answer right away, I knock again. “Where are you? I need you.”
The lock clicks after a few seconds, and I step back from the door as he swings it open.
It takes a moment for me to realize what I’m looking at. The hallway is dark, so I don’t make him out clearly right away.
But once I do, my heart seizes, and my face flushes because he’s naked. Completely, totally bare from head to toe.
He’s also groggy, looking at me through squinted eyes. “What is it?” he mumbles.
Damned if the sight of his naked body didn’t make me forget everything I’ve ever known. I doubt I could come up with my own name if somebody put a gun to my head. “Uh… I mean…”
“Come on. Out with it. I don’t have all day.”
“I can’t sleep,” I finally blurt out, forcing myself to stop staring at his abs, his chest, his dick. I don’t have a lot of experience with them, but even I can tell it’s pretty big even when it’s soft like it is now. I can’t stop glancing at it.
“And?” he prompts, either not noticing the way I can’t stop peeking at him or not caring.
It’s easier to snap out of it when he acts this way. “I was wondering if I could go downstairs and make something warm to drink.”
He lifts an eyebrow before rubbing his eyes, then scrubs his hands over his hair. It was already sort of sticking up in different directions when he came to the door so that only makes it worse. “Something warm?”
“Don’t act like you’ve never heard of people doing that before.” I can’t help but get a little exasperated when he lifts a shoulder. Is he putting this on for show just to make me feel stupid? He must be. “You know, like warm milk. I’m sure you’ve seen people do it on TV, or in movies at least.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he mutters, waving a hand. “I guess so. Go ahead.”
Wow. That was easier than I expected.
But of course, there are always strings attached. In this case, he leads the way, and I have no choice but to follow him down the stairs. He hasn’t bothered to put any clothes on, which is either a good thing or a bad thing depending on how I look at it. And I need to not look at it. That’s the whole problem. The way I want to look at him, all of him, for as long as possible.
I really, really wish I had a little more experience with sex. Maybe it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal to be walking around the house with a naked man if I had seen more naked men in real life. Is there ever a time when something like that becomes commonplace?
I doubt it ever could when the man in question looks like him. He’s practically superhuman. Like a photoshopped image come to life.
Once we reach the kitchen, and he turns on the light over the stove, I have no choice but to stop staring since he turns around and gives me a challenging sort of look. “Well? Go ahead. Make your warm drink.”
I swear he couldn’t be more sarcastic about it if he made air quotes with his fingers.
“Where are the pots?” He points at one of the cabinets under the counter, and I find a small one that I set on the stove. There’s milk in the refrigerator, and I pour roughly a cup worth of it into the pan—before adding more for him. Meanwhile, he busies himself, grabbing a bottle of water, then leans against the counter and takes a deep swig.
So he’s going to stand there completely naked while I do this. Fine. I can handle myself. No big deal. At least the fear of letting the milk boil over will be enough to keep me focused. There’s nothing worse than burnt milk. Something tells me he wouldn’t like it very much, either.
“Spices?” I ask, turning to him.
“Spices?”
“You know. This stuff you sprinkle on food to make it taste good?”
“What do you need them for?”
For God’s sake, it’s like pulling teeth. “I just want some cinnamon. That’s it. Do you have any?”
It’s almost funny how he looks around like he’s unaware of his own kitchen. I’m of half a mind to ask if he just moved in last week, but I can’t press my luck. Finally, he opens a drawer and reveals rows of small bottles clearly labeled with their contents.