Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73928 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I roll my journal back up and tuck it under my pillow after I stand, stretch again, check my thick braid that hangs over my left shoulder, and then I exit my bedroom.
The polite thing to do would be to wait for Maddox to wake up but I am starving and he put my bag in the utility room with his. I have maybe two meal replacement bars in the front pocket that I forgot to take out before handing it over.
I creep along the hall, keeping to the right as I make my way to the large archway that joins the hallway to the open-plan kitchen and dining room, which also leads to the most amazing outdoor pool I have ever seen. It looks like you can swim straight over the side. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Sure beats the piranha-infested waters we dared to swim in. Maddox even got bitten once, that wasn’t fun. Nasty little gits they can be. He still has the scar to prove it above his right ankle bone.
On bare feet and tiptoes I move silently across the kitchen and through another door, relieved when I see my bag on the side where Mad left it, though it’s empty of clothing and the washing machine is making a racket. He must have chucked our shoes in there with our clothes. Not an uncommon thing to do when backpacking but definitely not the right thing to do in normal civilization.
I laugh quietly and peel open the meal replacement bar. It leaves much to be desired in the flavor department but I’m starving. This is the first thing I have eaten since that awful plane meal that I took one bite of yesterday.
Sargent
“What are you doing?” I bark and she startles, squealing like a little girl as she spins to face me. There’s something hanging from between her lips, something in a silver packet. She grabs it and swallows the piece in her mouth.
“Getting food,” she replies, placing her hand to her heart and my eyes, unfortunately, catch sight of her perky rosebud nipples that are clearly visible through the white tank top she’s donning.
Damn it, she has amazing breasts. I bet they’d be heavy in my hands despite their perkiness and I’m almost certain the shape I see surrounding the pebbled tip of her left nipple is a piercing.
Why do I like that?
She shifts on the spot, uncomfortable by my staring and now I feel like a perverted fool.
I look at her in the eyes and keep my expression flat despite the raging hard-on my pants are hopefully concealing.
“Eating what?” I ask. She’s my son’s girl. I am sick. Or I am normal for appreciating a beautiful female form, which she definitely has. Gentle curves, if not a bit too slender from her travels, perky breasts which I can’t stop looking at, wider hips than most of the women I’m used to fucking in Malibu. I bet she has a great ass.
I have to stop myself from leaning around to check it out.
“It’s a meal replacement thing, like a cereal bar. It’s supposed to be beef dinner flavor but it tastes like shit actually.”
She just swore, my cock, which is already fucking killing me, gives a happy little twitch. I don’t typically speak to women with a potty mouth, I think I might like that too. Piercings and curse words… what an odd thing to enjoy.
“Why are you eating shit in my laundry room?” I frown, crossing my arms over my chest. A strike of manly satisfaction courses through me when she looks at my own assets. For an older man I’ve still got it, as I should, I work hard for this body and eat right.
“I’m hungry,” she replies as though I’m stupid as she pushes a hand through her hair, showing me a black and gray, surprisingly beautiful tattoo on her arm. It’s a swirling pattern with roses and hidden faces that has been so artistically done. I pull my eyes away because staring at her isn’t helping my arousal.
I fucking love tasteful tattoos on women and this one, which spans from her shoulder to her elbow, is gorgeous.
“There is a refrigerator full of food.”
Her lips twitch when I say refrigerator. Is she mocking me in her mind? Like she can mock anyone with her common-sounding British accent that is probably fake anyway.
“I’m not the type to make myself at home when my host is less than pleased to see me,” she admits, straight to the point of the issue, I like that. I might just respect her a little more for it.
“I apologize for my less than adequate greeting yesterday, allow me to redeem myself in the form of eggs benedict and toast.”
She smiles happily, stretching her dark pink lips which I think are their natural color. What a lucky, stunning young woman. My son certainly has good taste. She is a beauty.