Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Good thing I have a few sets in my bag then.” Otherwise, I’d really be shit outta luck.
“Yes, that’s a very good thing. Wearing a towel when you’re that stacked would be a travesty. You’d have to tie me to the bed to keep me from mauling you senseless.”
I am not even going to give that statement the time of day. I might be sweating after some phantom nighttime incident—probably a nightmare I can’t remember, although that hasn’t happened in years—and hearing her say things like that reminds me I’m verging on the last shred of my sanity and the last thread of control. It gives my dick ideas he can’t have. He can’t have any because the day my dick takes over my brain is the day I won’t recognize myself.
Despite being health-conscious and, honestly, a bit of a neat freak when it comes down to it, I haven’t tried many of the crazes, even the scientifically proven ones. I’m not sure how proven the ice baths or cold plunges are, but they’re said to do great things. However, I’ve been in doubt about whether it’s safe for a diabetic to undergo that kind of temperature change, so I immediately passed it off as something I would never do. I also haven’t done any proper research.
Tonight, maybe a cold plunge is exactly what I need. Minus the plunge. And the heart-stopping icy temperatures. I grab my bag from downstairs and head into the bathroom. Then, I hit the shower and crank the water to as cold as it will go. It’s certainly not the temperature of an ice bath, but maybe it will help me focus.
I’m a big guy, and this shower isn’t all that huge, so it concentrates mostly on the center of my back while I stand there with one hand braced against the other side. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to try and remember the nightmare or dream. But I can’t.
This has happened before, at my house. More than once. Except that those times, I always knew I had a dream. I just couldn’t remember it. A few times, I woke up, my heart racing out of control. But I’ve never been soaked in sweat after one.
Regardless, I still feel fine.
Nothing hurts. And nothing feels like it’s going to hurt.
Fucking shit, though. Fuck, goddamn it, fuck.
Having Ignacia see me like that wasn’t okay. Not that I could magic clean sheets onto her bed with her asleep in it, but maybe if she hadn’t woken up, they would have dried out by morning. I’m embarrassed because I’m uncomfortable. It’s like being pantsed at a fucking party full of important, influential people.
After the shower, I throw my spare T-shirt and sweats on. It’s the same outfit as before, just clean and dry. I check my monitor. Still nothing off. I even take my pulse. My heart rate isn’t even elevated.
When I exit the bathroom, Ignacia isn’t in her bedroom. I hear her moving downstairs, opening the damn door and closing it again. Then, she starts talking to someone.
In the middle of the night.
Maybe it’s my internal danger meter going off, trying to save me, but halfway into charging down the stairs like I’m going to have a coronary, I relax when I hear her say something about Mama. Her cat. She let the cat in, and now she’s talking to it. Alright, fair enough. It’s not someone coming to kill me because she found out who I really am and that I’m onto her, and the game is up.
Downstairs, she looks sweet and comfy in an old-fashioned floral granny robe that goes past her knees and has a full lace and quilting going on with the fabric. Despite a shadow under each eye because she’s tired, she looks dewy and beautiful. It’s just my fucking luck that I’d come here and find the world’s most naturally beautiful and alluring woman. It makes it hard to focus.
For the love of crawfish, it doesn’t. I’m good. I will not be swayed by this woman’s sensual charms.
The cat dances around her feet happily as she moves to the fridge. She pulls out the milk, which I’m about to tell her not to give the cat, but she sets the carton by the kettle, reaches into the cupboard, and takes down a small packet for the cat.
Onto the plate, the mystery paste goes. The cat likes it. She goes wild, meowing and purring while she eats, which sounds hilariously wild.
I almost find myself wanting to laugh, damn it.
Instead, I grunt so Ignacia knows I’m there. I don’t want to jumpscare her, such that she goes through the kitchen window. She turns, and her nightgown billows around her like a magic floral bag that does evil things to my dick. Who knew granny clothing was basically a magic boner arrow getting shot straight into my junk?