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)
I smile, thinking back at the icy glare he threw my way. I definitely got to him, crawled right under his skin and took a shit. I also know him well enough to recognize it's not enough to threaten him. I need to follow through, or else he's never going to take me seriously, and I want him to take me seriously.
I want him to see the real me, the broken, cracked, beyond-repair pieces; because through it all, Romero has never looked at me with pity. He’s never tried to make me feel like what happened was something I’d just forget. He’s the only one that seems to understand, and while his understanding is great, it’s also annoying as fuck. But do I really want some low-level, low-paying job? I'm a college graduate. That should count for something. Then again, many people are leaving college with no job prospects. I'm not completely out of touch, no matter what certain people think about me.
I think back to how he said he didn’t want me going around town by myself. Fine. Then he can come with me, like he said he would. I’m not going to spend another full day in this god-forsaken house. I need to get outside, socialize, smell a flower, and touch the grass.
He's upstairs, having just finished a workout in the basement. There's no equipment down there besides a heavy bag and a few free weights, and I lost track of how long he was punching that damn thing this morning. I only know it's amazing that he can use his hands afterward. You’d think repeatedly hitting that bag for fifteen or twenty minutes would be a problem.
Hell, you would think it would improve his mood a little. Then again, maybe it does. Perhaps the version of Romero I can barely coexist with is the nice version. The friendlier version. I shudder to think how much worse he could get—a monster lurking just beneath the surface.
I don't know what I'm thinking. Maybe I'm not thinking, and that's the problem. Perhaps I'm too busy already fighting with him in my head to take a second and catch up with what my body is doing. I trot up the stairs, ready to battle it out the way we always do, before coming to a stop at the partially open bathroom door. The steam drifting out tells me he’s taking a shower, but for some reason that doesn't compute in my brain fast enough to stop me, and I march right up to the door. I'm about to push it open the rest of the way and demand he come out with me... when a noise fills my ears.
At first, what I’m hearing doesn’t register in my mind. I’m listening to it, but I can't figure out what I’m actually hearing. His soft pants make me think he's stretching or doing squats or something, and I want to tell him to give it a rest already. Like, I get it. You are devoted to physical fitness, but that's not what this is.
From this angle, I can catch his reflection in the mirror over the sink. It reflects the shower, or rather what's going on behind the partially frosted vinyl curtain. I can't make out the details of him or his body, but I can see enough to realize he’s jerking off.
My gasp is barely muffled by the hand I clamp over my mouth. Idiot. I don't even know why I’m gasping. He's a human male with sexual urges, even if he likes to act like he's some untouchable robot. Still, there's something shocking and confusing about standing here, staring at the mirror, secretly hoping it doesn't fog up. His soft grunts grow louder and make my heart skip a beat. A warm flush awakens my senses as my skin starts to feel warm.
I need to stop. This is an invasion of privacy and wrong on so many levels, but my feet have grown roots. There's not much in the world that could drag me away from this spot.
His head falls back and he grunts again. Even when I stand on my tiptoes, I can't see much of him below his midsection. I would have to push the door open further and poke my head inside the door to get a better view and no way would end well. All I can do is let my imagination run free. His hand wrapped around his shaft, pumping up and down, going faster and faster. The way I'm sure his jaw tightens and his nostrils flare while his blue eyes close as pleasure takes over. I wonder if he looks as pissed off when he comes as he does when he’s talking to someone?
“Fuck...” The word is a broken whisper, and it’s that deep, gravelly tone that has the effect of tightening my nipples and spreading heat through my core. Suddenly, my insides are molten, swirling and seething, and I want. I want. For the first time in months, desire is bubbling up inside me. Not because I feel like there should be or because I feel like I need to try like I did with the guy in the hotel. No, this is different. My body is reacting on its own so strongly that I think I might be broken. I guess that’s not really a shock at this point.