Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103010 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103010 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Which wasn’t sexy at all. I highly doubted Dr. Kingsley wanted to fuck me, though, even if I hadn’t been puking.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“I was really sick. How long has it been?”
“Three days.”
“Holy fuck!” I shot to a sitting position. He had taken care of me for three days?
“Did he call work for you? Do you know?” Ian asked, and the reality of my situation slammed into me, crushed me like so many other things had done in my life.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “I was fired…” Which wasn’t just bad for me, but for Ian as well. He couldn’t pay his bills without me.
“We’ll figure it out. It’s not your fault.”
But it was my fault. It was always my fault. Jesus, why did I fuck everything up?
“When are you coming home?” he asked.
“Soon. I’m sure he won’t want me here now that I’m better.” Why would he? I was a dumb guy who couldn’t hold down a job.
“Okay,” Ian replied. “I’ll see you soon, and don’t freak out, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” But I was.
My clothes were folded on the dresser. I pulled off Dr. Kingsley’s shirt and held it to my face, inhaling, hoping for his scent again. What had it been in the car? I couldn’t even remember, but this shirt didn’t smell like him; it smelled of sickness and me.
I took his clothes off and put mine back on, then slipped out of the room with his pajamas in my hands. Looking down the hallway, I saw multiple closed doors but no one else. I was at the door closest to the stairs.
“Hello?” I whispered as I made my way down. The house was…fuck, it was incredible. I’d never been in a house so beautiful, and I wondered if he shared it with anyone. If he had a wife, or if he could possibly like men like I did. Was the guy he’d been dining with his lover?
The living room was off to the right of the stairs. There was a hallway behind them, and the kitchen and dining room to my left. The first floor was all either hardwood or tile, but there was a runner rug around the couch.
I walked into the kitchen next but still didn’t see him. As I stood there, though, all I could think of was what it would be like to live there…with him. To cook his meals and do his laundry and clean for him. To take care of him and have him do the same for me in other ways.
For him to order me to my knees and let me rest my head on his thigh like the boy in the video did.
It was then I realized that was what I could do for him. If I wanted to thank him for his help, I could give him that. Maybe not the kneeling part, but the other stuff.
So I took his clothes and found my way to the laundry room, which was off the kitchen. The damn room was large too, with a washer and dryer that likely cost what I made in six months.
After putting his clothes in, I added soap. There was a basket there with a few other items in it, so I added those as well. It took me a moment to figure out how to start the machine, and when I did, a silly feeling of pride swelled in my chest.
There were a few dishes in the sink, so I emptied the dishwasher and cleaned the dirty ones as well. Those I hand-washed and dried before putting them away. He would probably think I was crazy. I had no business doing these things in someone else’s house, but I wanted to.
It was so ordinary, such an everyday activity, but I liked the thought of doing it for him. For caring for him in this simple way.
I figured he had to be there somewhere. He wouldn’t have left me in the house alone, and maybe he would be hungry? Maybe I could feed him or cook for him so he would at least have something for later.
The pantry was fucking huge, like oh-my-God-who-needed-that-much-food big. I searched it and the fridge to find something that kept well. I settled on spaghetti. His appliances were stainless steel, his cooking utensils top-notch. I got the ground beef going, then swapped the clothes into the dryer.
I was back at the stove, putting the bottled sauce on, when I heard, “What are you doing?” in that deep, baritone voice of his.
My body whipped around to face him. He stood there with his arms crossed, in a nice polo shirt and jeans. He wore socks but no shoes, and God, I longed to be at his feet. “I woke up and you weren’t there. I…wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to thank you.” And serve you, and please, please, please, can’t you want that too?