Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I’ve been trying not to smile for the past hour. Clenching my jaw. Until my whole face is sore.
I’m on envelope licking duty, which is just me running glue over the edge. I could’ve let an assistant handle these types of boring tasks. But stuffing invitations with my man is so fucking normal that I don’t want to hand it off or pass it up.
Farrow doesn’t look away from the movie. “You’re slacking on your job, wolf scout.”
My neck blazes. I twist off the cap to a new glue stick. “I’m not even behind.”
Yeah, I have five invitations on my lap that need sealed and stamped.
He holds out another envelope, his smile stretching with that annoying knowingness. And I imagine those inked fingers gripping me. From my jaw, sliding down my chest to the ridges of my abdomen, and our lips collide in heavy, synchronous desire and thunderous love. Until we’re out of breath, and he uses the last footholds of his strength to pull me under him.
His muscles bearing on my body, and I clutch his hair and look deeply into—
“Maximoff.”
I blink too slowly out of a fantasy-daydream.
Fuck me.
Farrow is smiling just like James Franco’s character in Freaks & Geeks. Full-blown, cheek-to-cheek. “If you keep picturing my cock in your ass, you will be behind. Literally and figuratively.”
I plant my eyes on Batman & Robin. “Who said I was imagining you inside me?” I seal the invite. “Maybe my cock was in your ass.” I force myself not to glance at Farrow.
I can play hard to get.
Though, I realize why he’d guess that I was picturing him inside me. I’ve been really into bottoming lately. I’m aware.
Highly aware.
I sense Farrow giving me a once-over in interest. Blood pools south, my dick straining against my jeans. I crave to see his expression, but I’m trying to ruffle him a bit.
I tear the new invitation out of his clutch and make a show of doing my job better than he’s doing his. “Maybe you should take your own advice, man. So you don’t get behind.”
One corner of his mouth curves. “We can pretend that I’m with you straggling behind if that’s what you really want.”
I growl. “It’s not what I want. Because I’m not straggling behind.” I finish my stack pretty quickly and wait for the next one.
Farrow holds out another envelope, and I risk a long glance at him.
His concentration is half on the movie, half on the next invitation. Zero percent on me. Disappointment bites at me, and I try to bottle that sentiment.
I should be happy that he’s actually watching Batman & Robin. I’ve been slowly introducing Farrow to the classic Batman flicks, and this is one of the last ones on the list. He was dying laughing when Mr. Freeze appeared on-screen.
And at Batman’s suit, which has bat-nipples.
Honestly, this is one of my favorites, right behind Batman Returns, but I get that it’s not a blockbuster hit. Which is why I left it towards the end. I told Farrow all of this too, and I think ever since I said, “It’s one of my favorites,” he’s been watching the movie more closely.
His hair color has changed, by the way. Like epically changed. The roots are still his natural ash-brown hue, but Farrow dyed the white strands sherbet orange. The color fades like a sunset, and somehow, some damn way, he still looks cool.
“Like I was saying.” Farrow lifts his brows, his gaze falling to the invite that I haven’t taken from his fingers yet, then back up to me.
A smile breaks through my face. Dammit. I rake a hand over my mouth. I’m happy that he didn’t forget me, alright. “I have no clue what you were saying; my brain sets your voice to mute.” I grab the invitation.
He slips me a look like I’m full of shit. “Sure.” He stuffs another envelope. “Jane really wants this hassle?” He raises a card, referring to a line printed on the invites.
Location: please call 215-555-3949 for details
We’ve asked guests to kindly not post photos of the invitations—but as a precaution in case of a leak, we decided not to print the location of the wedding.
Guests have to call the number to a burner phone—a phone that Janie bought and will be personally answering.
“It’s a ton of work,” I tell him, “but she’s pretty adamant.”
Now that she’s thinking of being a wedding planner for other couples in the future, any extra work that she keeps collecting for our wedding makes me feel a little better. It helps knowing she does really enjoy the planning and organizing.
I glue another envelope. “At least if a mailman or random person dumpster-dives for the invites, they won’t have her real phone number.”
He nods. “Okay, but if the burner’s number is leaked and some dipshits start pranking her and making answering the phone impossible, I hope she’ll pass the task off to Thatcher or me.”