Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Let’s see how this goes,” I told Rosita as I tossed her a couple of Goldfish.
Dezi was doing gimmie hands when I made my way across the loft to set the tray down on his lap.
“Look at your mother, spoiling me with three kinds of crackers,” he said, tossing a few into the soup that, admittedly, looked better in the kitchen light than it did up in the loft. The consistency seemed off now that it was sitting too.
Crap.
But Dezi was already picking up his spoon, dipping it into the soup, and tasting it.
I stood there in nervous silence as he ate.
Every last bit of it.
“Baby,” he said when he was done, trying hard to keep his lips in a straight line.
“Yeah?”
“That was the worst soup I’ve ever had in my life,” he admitted. “It tasted like ketchup soup.”
That’s because it was ketchup soup.
I mean, I didn’t think there would be that big of a difference between ketchup and the canned tomatoes the recipe called for.
I should have tasted it.
But, honestly, I’d been scared to.
Rightfully so, it seemed, if Dezi even thought it was gross. A man I’d once seen put pickles in his strawberry limeade. Who mixed all his cereals together into one massive bowl. Sugar and chocolate and cinnamon in one revolting concoction.
And my soup was disgusting?
“I don’t know how to cook,” I admitted, surprisingly disappointed that it hadn’t come out okay as I took the tray off of his lap and set it on the nightstand.
“And I fucking love you for trying,” he said, grabbing my wrist before I could go skulk away and wallow in my feelings of homemaking ineptitude, something I never would have thought was possible before
My gaze shot up, sure I’d misheard him, or that he was just being casual, saying a throwaway comment.
Because, despite the fact that I knew I’d been hopelessly in love with his crazy ass since practically the first week knowing him, it really didn’t seem like it was the right time to admit that.
So there was no way he was going to do that, right?
“Yeah, you heard me,” he said, voice nasal and rough from his congestion and sore throat. “Love you, Theo,” he said, yanking me hard, making me lose my footing and fall across his lap and the bed, making Marie let out a hiss as she jumped off the bed and made her way back down the steps.
A laugh bubbled up and burst out of me as I lifted my face off the mattress, feeling Dezi land a hard slap to my ass that was in his lap.
“Oh, you have enough strength to smack my ass but not get your snot rags into the garbage, huh?” I asked.
“Gotta say the motivation here is better,” he said as both his hands went to my ass, massaging.
Along with Dezi’s theory about cute animals fixing everything, he also believed butt rubs could do the same.
And, well, I wasn’t exactly complaining about either of those theories, seeing as I got to be on the receiving end of them.
I had a bathtub currently filled with four silkie chicks he’d brought home the week before.
I was already madly in love with each and every one of them.
Rose, Blanche, Sofia, and Dorothy.
Did that mean that we were currently hauling our asses up to my father’s house or the clubhouse to shower? Yes. But it was worth it.
“They’re mini chickens,” he’d told me when he’d presented them to me in a small basket he’d likely stolen from someone’s bedroom at the clubhouse.
So, yeah, I loved the compulsive animal gifting.
And the butt rubs? Well, they were either relaxing or exciting, depending on the day.
I started to snuggle into the blankets, convinced it was a relaxing day, when his hands started getting a little frisky.
“You’re sick,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but orgasms make me feel better,” he insisted.
“Sure, but maybe I don’t want your snotty hands all over me,” I suggested.
Which was the wrong thing to say.
This was Dezi we were talking about. He was going to go ahead and take that as a challenge.
“What was that about not wanting my hands on you?” he asked a moment later as he was rubbing my clit through my pajama pants, stoking a fire that sickness had buried for the past ten or so days.
Underneath me, Dezi’s cock was hard, pressing against the juncture of my thighs.
It wasn’t long until he was pulling my pants and panties down over my ass, then thighs, continuing to torment me before sliding out from under me, then yanking my hips upward toward him as he got behind me.
Freeing his cock, he rubbed it against my cleft as his hands snuck under my shirt to massage my breasts, then tease my nipples into straining points as my hips ground back against him, begging for more.