Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
No fear there.
And then there’s Jack. Jack who I first thought was nothing but a douche with a load of money. Jack who I thought for sure would chuck me onto the street and never want to see me again.
Jack who now gives me a beer every evening and talks straight, no bullshit and no dicking about. He says what he thinks, and what he thinks is that I’m being a bitch to Michael without good reason.
He doesn’t know how much it stings to want someone who doesn’t want you back.
But now things are getting complicated, because a few weeks ago I thought all I ever wanted was Michael. The way his eyes are firm but kind. The way he doesn’t want to let me down. The way I know his calmness would disappear the minute his suit came off and I got my mouth around that big dick I know he’s packing. I’ve seen the promise of it when he’s hard but tries to hide it.
I’ve been checking him out for months and liked every single thing I’ve seen.
But here, in Jack’s place, with a whole other proper man to scope out every evening, I realise that it’s not just being grateful that has me feeling butterflies every time I hear his car in the driveway after work. It’s not just wanting some company that has my heart racing every time he grabs me a beer out of the fridge.
Jack’s eyes aren’t kind, not like Michael’s. They’re tough and raw and brutal. His words are blunt but fair. And the way he wears his suit is different to the way Michael wears his. Michael has an almost scholarly look about him, like he’s some kind of boffin professor or something. Jack’s looks like he was born to wear it.
I don’t like suits but I like them on Jack.
I like them on Michael, too.
I like the way both of these guys are put together, and in bed at night I think of both of them.
It breaks my heart to think I might not get either, but I’m not done yet.
Michael doesn’t want me and he’s made sure I know it, but Jack…
Jack looks at me. Not just like Bill and Eli and Eddie Stevens looked at me. He doesn’t try to sneak a peek every time I’m sitting opposite him in a low cut top. He doesn’t try to check me out in the shower when I leave the bathroom door slightly open – and I do.
Jack looks at me like I’m a proper woman, even if he isn’t about to make a move on me. He looks at me as though he could tear my clothes off and fuck me hard and know what the fuck he was doing, even if he isn’t going to. And I am a proper woman. I’m eighteen and I’m not sorry for the fact that I want to get fucked by a guy who can’t keep his hands off me.
But Jack hasn’t made a single move. Doesn’t even hint that he wants to.
I wish he would, but he doesn’t.
I’ve almost finished up a fresh section of fencing when the sky turns grey. I work quickly, because I planned to take pictures of this bit all finished up. I’m panting and sweating by the time the rain starts, and when it starts it starts hard.
I’m soaked through by the time I’ve hammered in the last few nails, skidding through the mud up the bank as I gather up my things and try to get a decent shot of my finished railings. My boots are definitely past it. Their grip is useless as I try to keep my footing, and my arms are too full of tools to keep my balance. I go tumbling, tits first into a sloppy pile of mud, and if I were an indoor kind of girl I’d be pissed, because my clothes are plastered with mud and sheep shit and fuck knows what else. My open jacket did little to protect my cami and bra, and any other colour than white would have definitely been a better choice for doing this kind of work in if I had all that many options to choose from. But I don’t.
I can’t stop laughing as I pull myself up. The rain on my muddy skin feels amazing. Getting so up close and personal with the outdoors sings to my soul, even if I am filthy now. I ditch my jacket in the mud and spin on the spot, not caring that my muddy hair is plastered to my scalp, or the rain is trickling down between my tits, or that I can taste the earth on my tongue.
It’s a moment I want to keep forever, so I dig my mobile out of my pocket and angle it for a selfie. I hardly ever take photos of myself, and it feels weird. I make sure I hold the camera up high so you can see the fencing down below behind me, and I blink the rain from my eyes and give a smile.