Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Lancelot, however, isn’t through with them in the least; my brave dog chases the confused birds to the brink of the terrace, barking and barking until the avian attackers flutter away into the night, gone for good.
Trevor doesn’t move until he feels the wet swipe of a tongue across his neck—to which he flinches in fear. When he puts down his arms and looks, he finds Lance standing in front of him, bright-eyed and panting happily. Trevor lifts his eyebrows in wonder. Then, in a move that surprises us both, Lancelot licks Trevor’s face from his chin to the top of his cheek, over and over. Trevor starts to laugh, falling against the tree as Lance pours all his love all over Trevor’s face.
Once Trevor’s been appropriately covered in dog saliva, Lance takes the sword by his teeth, slipping it from Trevor’s hand, and goes off to chew and play with the squeaky thing. Trevor watches, astonished.
I come to join Trevor under the tree, putting my arm over his back and squeezing him against me.
He shakes his head. “What … the hell … just happened?”
I kiss Trevor on his cheek. “I think you just knighted my dog.”
Trevor looks at me, warmth returning to his eyes. “I guess sometimes you just have to fight for what’s yours, no matter the scandalous birds of gossip that try to tear you down.”
“You and your metaphors and poetry,” I tease him.
Trevor bites his lip. “I do have three fourths of a degree in Journalism, you know.” He eyes me. “And I’m kind of horny.”
“I fail to connect the two thoughts.”
“I’m very horny.”
“Really, though, you have a gift,” I insist to him. “For words. It’s one of the things Rebekah noted on your application, your finesse with the English language.”
“I’m literally hard right now.”
“Plus, I think you could really make a career out of it,” I go on. “I have connections.”
“I have a boner, and I’d like to connect it to your mouth.”
I grip him by the face, sobering him at once. “You’re beautiful, Trevor. Inside and out. And I’m so lucky to have you.”
Those words, of all the ones I’ve uttered, finally affect him. He bites his lip as he blushes, unable to say anything as he stares into my eyes.
“To have you,” I repeat, emphasizing it. “I implied that you’re all mine. Does that make you hornier?”
“Maybe,” he mumbles cheekily, still biting his lip.
“Got anything in mind?”
He answers by tackling me to the dirt, his lips dropping onto mine impatiently. Here we both are, fighting for what’s ours. I think we’re finally ready to figure this out for the first time not as boss and intern, but rather as boyfriend and boyfriend—the way it was always meant to be.
Epilogue
Trevor fast-forwards 4 years.
Four years can really change a person.
Unless that person happens to be named Benjamin Gage, who is as immature as ever, eyeing me suggestively over the table at this ritzy restaurant as he ever so slowly dips his breadstick in and out of the garlic butter sauce over and over and over again.
I’m apparently in love with a thirteen-year-old who makes lewd sex jokes in public, shamelessly plays footsy with me under the table the whole time I’m trying to enjoy my shrimp scampi, and is insatiably horny at all hours of the day.
I finally crack a smile and proceed to muffle my laugh with a cloth napkin. And I can’t get enough of him.
I don’t mean to be “one of those gross lovey-dovey guys”, but pretty much every weekend is like this now. Benjamin spoils me with some fancy dinner at a restaurant, we hit the town for a bit to kick back and have fun, and then we’re home cuddled up on the couch with a movie. Lancelot has taken a liking to me ever since we conquered Mount Benjamin and reclaimed the terrace from the evil bird beak posse, so he’ll often cuddle with us too or sit on the rug below our feet.
Comically, he’ll leave right when Ben and I start to kiss and decide we can’t make it to the end of the movie without losing ourselves in each other’s massaging hands and explorative lips.
Spoiler alert: all our massages have happy endings.
This particular weekend, however, is special—and not just because it’s my three-year anniversary of the incredible job I landed as a freelance writer for one of the country’s largest media publications. This weekend is special for a reason which will be unveiled after we get home and my final plans come together.
“You’ve been really jumpy today,” notes Ben, eyeing me as we walk back to our apartment under the evening sun—which tries and succeeds at turning the sky into a breathtaking painting of warring orange and brilliant blue colors.
“After watching your breadsticks fornicating with the garlic butter sauce for an hour,” I quip back, “I think I have a library of reasons to be jumpy.”