Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I don’t have the answer, but I sure as hell ogle his muscular thighs, which are hugged by a pair of jeans. Should I make a move? And if I do, then what? I can’t blow him while he’s driving. What if I’m bad at it? Or so good at it, that he loses control of the car? Or if there’s a bump in the road, his cock accidentally lodges itself in my throat, and we have to go to the hospital, and then I’d forever be that guy on the news who had to have throat surgery because of sucking dick in a moving car?
“What can I say? He’s making me lose my head a little,” Nico chuckles, but won’t even look my way. Which shouldn’t feel hurtful but does.
“Well, have fun you two, I have a customer,” Owen tells us and breaks off the connection, once again leaving us in a limbo of silence.
My stomach chooses this moment to grumble, and I cross my legs to do something, anything, with my limbs, because at this point I don’t know what I want anymore.
“You and him… you ever—”
Nico frowns. “Any reason you’re asking, or is this your idea of small talk?”
I look out at the snow-covered trees, air stuck in my windpipe as I sense his gaze on my body. I despise the fact that his attention makes me so content. “You’re very friendly.”
“We jerked each other off once. It made things awkward, so we agreed to be just friends after that.”
It’s as if he’s set off several bombs in my head at once. Bomb one—jealousy over Owen. Ridiculous, I know, but it would be even dumber to deny that’s what I’m feeling. Bomb two—his capacity to be just friends with a guy he was intimate with. Bomb three—awkwardness after a one-time fling leading to the friendship.
Bomb three is somehow most alarming, because… are we being awkward now? Are we on the trajectory of fuck-to-awkward-to-friends? And if I never wanted to be his boyfriend, why does this bother me like an itch I can’t scratch? Wouldn’t it be for the better if we decided to forgo any sexual tension between us?
Can I pretend I didn't come when he rutted against me? That I didn't moan and thrash when the Christmas Killer was on top of me? That I don't long for his touch every minute since that very first kiss?
I don’t know if this is Stockholm Syndrome, or if there’s something very wrong with me, but denying that I have these feelings seems as futile as sending a letter to Santa without a stamp.
Nico turns into a road headed for a strip mall with some shops and a supermarket. “I want to buy us provisions in case we need to stay put somewhere.”
“We’ll be in Toronto. I’m sure they have shops there,” I say, even though my stomach’s demanding food.
Nico sighs. “You can wait in the car if you want,” he tells me. He knows I won’t run from him anymore, not after what happened last night, and I hate what it’s done to this strange thing blooming between us.
“No. I’ll go with you.”
He frowns as he drives into the parking lot. “I can leave the heating on.”
Like this is about the fucking heating!
I grab his wrist and hold it, instantly calmer yet at the same time self-conscious about touching him. Why can’t I be normal?
His eyebrows rise, but he has to look back to the road as he’s parking, and now I’m jealous even of the damn asphalt. “You want to… choose your own produce?” he tries, and the way he keeps his distance from me is making me want to scream. It’s too late. He should have kept his hands to himself when I wanted him to. Now, after we kissed, had sex, after yesterday’s date and him protecting me with his own body, how dare he be so cold?
I want him to see me again. To care for me again, and what better way to do that than by showing some Christmas spirit? “I want to bake you a cake.”
I’ve never baked in my life, but how hard can it be?
Nico stops the car and cocks his head at me. Whenever he does that, I’m always reminded of the first time I saw him. In the black balaclava with ears, dragging a body down a flight of stairs. I got his unwanted attention when I gagged, and he turned to me, cocking his head like a wolf smelling prey.
It shouldn’t excite me, but it does.
“A cake? Okay,” he says, but squints at me. I’m guessing my request is so out in left field he’s doubting my good intentions. Still, he gets out of the car and waits for me.
“What do you like? Gingerbread? Fruitcake?” I ask, adjusting my coat as I join him in the cold, and we both walk toward the supermarket.