Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
And then there’s Khloe.
I don’t even know her, but it’s the idea that I want to get to know her better that’s throwing me for a loop. Do I want to fuck her? No doubt about that. I feel the twitch of my cock in my jeans just sitting here thinking about it. Nothing new about that. The difference is I can actually see myself sitting down with Khloe for a meal after the deed is done. Well, breakfast in bed anyways. Let’s not go too crazy here.
“You’re not even listening to me,” I hear Em say and feel her swat at my arm.
I laugh because there’s no telling what the hell she just said while I was stuck in my own damn head.
She sighs. “She’s interested, Kid.” She smiles sweetly. “Well, she was interested, but then Snap showed up in your shirt.”
“Fuck,” I grumble.
“Yeah, fuck,” she mimics and turns the gardening show back on.
I stand from the couch, lean over and kiss Em on the head, then head to Khloe’s room. My luck would be she won’t talk to me for the next month. Problem solved.
Chapter 11
Khloe
I lean into the soft touch against my cheek before I realize that I’m supposed to be alone in this room. Simultaneously I open my eyes and attempt to shuffle back on the bed. My heart is thundering in my chest, and my breathing is ragged.
Kid is sitting on the edge of my bed looking at me with confusion and pity. A sudden urge to explain hits me. But how do I tell him about the foster home from five years ago? How do I explain how the foster dad would sneak into my room after his wife left for work? I wasn’t there long enough for it to go any further than deviant touching, but the damage had been done none the less.
It’s the pity in his eyes, and the assumptions he’s probably making that keep me from opening up. He probably wouldn’t care anyways. I’m here because he sympathizes with my situation and nothing more. When I look at him, I see the redhead in his shirt. I may not be that experienced, but I know why a woman would be wearing a man’s shirt. She clearly picked it up in the morning after taking it off of him the night before.
“Sorry,” I mutter in apology for my freak out.
“Don’t apologize,” he says softly, his hands now resting in his lap. “I should’ve knocked louder.”
“Your house,” I say before I can stop myself. How many times have I heard that? ‘My house, my rules.’ I’m pretty sure the foster parents from each and every home I’ve ever been in have said it a million times. That’s almost as popular as the whole ‘Well, your caseworker isn’t here, is she?’
“Your room,” he says sternly. “This is yours, Khloe. I shouldn’t have invaded your space without permission.”
I watch him scrub his hands over his face. The tentative touch to his beard seems like a new action for him, as if it’s not been there very long. I’ve always been attracted to men with beards. Daddy issues I suppose. Most men, or boys I should say, that had them in school were patching and disgusting. Kid’s beard is a work of art.
Brazenly, I reach over and run my own hand down it. He stills at the action, and I’m unsure if it’s because I’ve overstepped or he is surprised that I wanted to touch his face too.
“It’s new,” he says after a long moment.
“It suits you,” I say honestly.
I pull my hand away before the situation gets more awkward than it already is. My fingertips continue to tingle from the scratch of the hairs against them.
“You weren’t at breakfast.”
“I went for a ride last night,” he says. “It lasted longer than I’d planned.”
I nod. I want to ask him about the t-shirt, but I know it’s not my place. His hand on my cheek means nothing. It’s a tender way to wake someone up, less jarring than yelling from across the room or shaking their shoulder.
“Did you skip lunch?”
I grin sheepishly. “I laid down right after breakfast. I guess I was more tired than I realized. What time is it now?”
“Late afternoon,” he says after a big yawn.
“You look tired,” I observe. He rubs his eyes and yawns a second time. “You should get some sleep.”
He smiles weakly at me. “I was hoping you’d want to hang out.”
“You’re exhausted. I’m not getting on the back of your bike when you’re this tired. I may be suicidal, but roadkill is not the way I want to go out.”
He frowns at my off-colored remark. “That’s not funny.”
“I know,” I say with a smile. “It seems like a painful way to go.”
He scoots close and cups my face in both hands. I look up at him and watch his eyes dart back and forth between mine. He’s trying to get a better read on me, and it feels like he’s delving into my soul.