Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“I am,” I assure him. “Besides, you’ve got plenty of … very willing guys to choose from inside that house.”
Yes, Quintin is still watching us.
Is it too much to wish for an Act of God to strike the roof of the porch down simply to end this conversation?
“But I already chose someone,” he whines. “You’re all I want. I want every part of you. I want your dick inside of me. I want your big ass on my face. I want your nipples in my hot, wet mouth. You are a fucking birthday beef cake.”
Quintin makes a tiny sound, then covers his mouth and looks away.
Did he just laugh? Or sneeze?
“You deserve someone who will take care of you,” the guy goes on, not noticing, then drags his hungry eyes down my body, “and all of your needs.”
His hand reaches for my robe once again.
I gently brush it away and put on my customer service smile—the kind I’ve already put on a hundred times today at Thalassa. “Buddy, the only thing I need right now is to get home.”
“C’mon, baby, sexy. Don’t you want to fuck me until I can’t feel my teeth?”
But even my patience has an end. And I’m just about ready to lose my cool and let this guy have an earful of exactly why I don’t want my dick in anything tonight.
Until Quintin shouts: “Oh, there you are! Hey!”
We turn. Quintin has hopped off the banister and made his way across the porch, smiling jovially.
“Hey,” I greet him back with a note of uncertainty.
“Was waiting here for you!” he says, coming to a stop in front of us. I don’t know how I didn’t notice this before, but Quintin is armed with a damned cute smile—full lips and dimples for days. He brings his voice down suddenly. “I, uh … I have that stuff you wanted, but it’s in my car a few streets away.”
And now he’s lost me. “Stuff …?”
“Yeah. Y’know. The stuff.”
I still don’t follow. I stare at him blankly. Is Quintin a drug dealer? Did I miss a clue during our little exchange at the bathroom door inside? “I, uh … stuff?”
“For your diarrhea situation,” he clarifies helpfully.
My face freezes.
My lips hang open, at a loss.
What the fuck …?
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he carries on blithely. “Look, it was my bad for suggesting tacos this afternoon for lunch and insisting that we load up on the hot sauce. Phew, we should’ve learned our lesson after hitting up La Cocina Caliente last Tuesday, but I know you,” he says, wiggling his finger, still wearing his adorable smile. “You can’t resist a hot taco!”
I can’t blink suddenly.
My face won’t work.
“So you wanna come with me?” he asks rather intently, eyebrows lifted. “To fetch the medicine? From my car …? Which is … a few streets away …?”
Oh. Now I get it.
He’s trying to save me.
With an imaginary Pepto catastrophe.
I think I’m supposed to take the rope he’s throwing and play along. “Uh … y-yeah. Let’s get that medicine.” I turn to the jockstrap guy, who has apparently been having an experience of his own figuring out what to make of all this. His face reflects a mixture of repulsion and bafflement. “Sorry. Gotta go. Y’know. Because of my … situation.”
Jockstrap lifts his hands in surrender, speechless.
After a moment of hesitation, I step off of the porch with my new hero and flee the scene of the crime. In total silence, without a single word more exchanged between us, we disappear around the corner of the house side-by-side.
Once out of sight, I face him. “What the hell was that?”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m supposed to thank you for that humiliating scene back there?”
“You were drowning. I threw you a life raft.”
“But … did it have to be that?”
“No thanks needed, really. It was absolutely, entirely, completely my pleasure.” He grins, holding back laughter.
I smirk at him. Alright, so we’re having fun here. “I guess I deserved that, after stealing the bathroom from you. Even though you didn’t need to use it anyway.”
“It’s the principle of it, like I said. Now we’re even.”
Though he looks like the shy, quiet type on the outside, Quintin carries himself with confidence. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he isn’t anything like the usual tourist—or that he actually interpreted “sleepwear” in a more literal way—but I can’t seem to take my eyes off of him.
I finally decide to laugh it off and shake my head. “I guess we are even. That guy was … damned persistent.”
“I know. It’s the reason I couldn’t stay in that house any longer,” he admits. “Way too many desperate guys. Smelled like feet. Couldn’t breathe. As it turns out, I need a steady supply of oxygen to live.”
“Hey, me too.”
“What a coincidence. We already have so much in common. Wanna get married?”