Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Romero’s breathing becomes harsh. Faster. He’s getting close. I need to walk away, to stop watching, and I should absolutely not be listening. There’s no coming back from something like this—I’ll never be able to look at him the same way again, but there’s no walking away either. My body is literally requiring me to finish this through.
“Oh… oh… fuck…!” His heavy, ragged breaths and soft groans steal the air from my lungs and the thudding of my own heartbeat swooshes in my ears. It’s so loud I can barely hear him anymore. What is wrong with me? I can’t believe I’m still standing here, watching, listening. I’m supposed to hate this man, despise him, and yet…
My core tightens, the warmth in my center pulsing with newfound life. I haven’t been aroused in months or even considered touching myself or trying to reach an orgasm, but I can feel the desire pooling in my stomach.
The center of my panties feels damp, my pussy clinging to the cotton. I can’t believe how aroused I am. Shit, I need to get out here. Clearly there is something wrong with me. I need fresh air to clear my head. There must be some kind of gas leak in the house because that's the only excuse I can think of for what I just did.
First, there's the matter of tiptoeing away from the bathroom door. The shower is still running, so I doubt he could hear me, but I'm going to be as careful as I can anyway. With my luck, I'll step on a creaky floorboard and announce my presence. I’m so disappointed in myself. Not because what I did was wrong or anything like that—I mean, it wasn't right, but that's not why I sort of want to sit in the shower with my clothes on and bleach my brain.
The biggest problem is, I need help understanding what it means. After all this time, I get all hot and bothered because of him? It has to be because he's the only decent-looking guy for miles. Even I can admit he's handsome. His friends aren't ugly, either. Although, compared to Romero, they might as well walk around with paper bags over their heads.
But this is Romero. Romero! Someone who has never wasted an opportunity to make me feel small, spoiled, and stupid. He has never once held back for the sake of sparing my feelings, and somehow I'm dripping wet over him. It’s pathetic. Just the thought of how he’d react if he knew makes me want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
Once I'm down the stairs, I head straight outside to the front porch, where a cool breeze touches my overheated skin and makes me sigh in relief. I pull in as much air as my lungs can hold and then let it out all at once, almost like I can blow away everything I'm feeling inside. That shouldn't have happened. Now, it will always be in the back of my mind. I’ll forever know what it sounds like when Romero comes.
As usual during the day, the street is quiet. Most of the people on the block are at work on a weekday afternoon. Even when they’re home, though, there isn’t usually any disturbance other than some shitty kids who like to shout back and forth while riding their bikes. Maybe they aren’t shitty. Maybe they’re just kids. It’s been so long since I was one of them, I forget what it was like.
I’m becoming old and bitchy before my time. Sour. Reclusive. Goodness, now I hang around partly open doors and spy while someone I can’t stand jerks off. I need help. I need something to occupy my mind. I'm so wrapped up in hating myself that I'm startled by the sound of a woman's voice.
“Excuse me! Can you help me?”
This is the first time I've seen the old woman who lives next door up close. I've noticed her once or twice—sweeping her porch, sprinkling breadcrumbs in her backyard for the birds. She appears sweet. Though, I'm basing my opinion on watching her from the window. She could be a murderer for all I know. Right now, she's struggling with a paper bag of groceries that looks like it's ready to explode.
“I just know I'm going to drop these eggs!” she calls out. Knowing I’ll feel bad if I witness her struggling any longer, I hustle down the steps and over to her, where I grab the overloaded bag without thinking. She’s got to be pushing seventy. Her wrinkled face is kind and she offers me a gentle smile. “Thank you so much. Sometimes, I go a little overboard at the market and forget I have to carry the bag home by myself.”
“No problem. I'm glad I was able to help.” She runs a gnarled hand over her salt-and-pepper hair, neatly pulled back in a low ponytail. “My name is Millie Cooper. What's yours?”