Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Oh my crab, oh crab, oh my crabbbbbbb!” I yelp.
“Where did you get stung? Are you allergic?” Mont’s hands hover in the car between us like he wants to touch me, but he’s afraid. Not that it could hurt, but that I’m not open to him touching me for any reason, even in medical life-or-death situations.
“How the hell, where the hell, why the hell…where did those evil little buggers come from?”
“Is it possible for them to be in the sand?”
“On a beach? That’s a new level of heinously evil if I’ve ever heard of heinous evil.”
Mont’s eyes rake over me, hot and dark with concern. Despite the extraordinary level of murderous near-blackout level pain, I feel a twinge that is entirely hormonal. It’s me reacting to the nearness of all that testosterone again.
“Where did they sting you?”
“Nowhere I can check here without getting arrested for public indecency.” My nipple feels like it’s going to explode or fall off. Is that a thing? “What if the stinger is still in there?” I don’t mean to wail, but thinking about the damage this might have done to my boob is starting to scare me, right along with the high level of ouch. I know it’s not my boob. I know it. It’s my nipple. The thing somehow had an impeccable aim, and it stung me dead center of the boob bullseye.
“I don’t live that far. It’s far enough, but short of finding a public bathroom—”
“I’m not going to check this in a public bathroom!” I practically screech.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“It’s too far.” My eyes well up.
I don’t want to cry about this. I don’t care about being strong or weak, but I know tears will only increase the level of panic. It’s already near hysteria, wondering and worrying about my poor nipple’s future. What if that sting caused lasting nerve damage? What if it’s going to hurt forever now? Can a nipple shrivel and fall off like a frost-bitten toe?
“Are you okay to go to my house? I can find the nearest hospital if you think you need a doctor.”
The thought of having to go to a hospital and getting medical attention for this is mortifying. I’m also super scared of all things doctor and hospital-related. Sometimes, it’s necessary, but I’m not sure this is one of those times, and I don’t want to take resources away from people who need the help. Also? I think they have to write everything down, and having this on my medical record? I would just rather not. I feel like the doctor or nurse who checked me out would rate this right up there with people who get strange objects stuck up in places they should not, and no, I’m not talking about the nose, although how awful would that be?
“What do you do when stung? Put ice? Dirt? Pee on it?”
“I think it depends on what kind of sting it is,” he replies.
“Do you have ice, dirt, and pee?” I ask.
“Ummm, I do, but I’m not sure—”
“Good. We’ll go to your house. I’ll hold it together until then. I can make it, I think. I hope. I’m not going to throw up all over your car or die on the inside or have a stroke before we get there. How long will it take, do you think?”
“Twenty minutes since traffic should be lighter at this time of night.”
I grit my teeth together, slide my seatbelt over my shoulder, and grunt out what I hope passes for words. “I can make it.”
Chapter twelve
Evilla
Evilla
This is not how I imagined this man seeing my breasts, even if it hasn’t happened yet.
We walked into his magnificent warehouse condo via a set of metal stairs on the side of the building, all very fire escape-esque. Mont brought all the to-go containers and stood behind me like he would catch me if I fell backward or wavered. I managed to limp up the steps, trapping a whimper in my throat with every single jarring movement.
Even though my nipple is in danger of falling the hell off, I can still appreciate the architectural marvel that is his home.
When I asked about exposed brick and beams, I had no idea those things could be combined with the most gothic, arched, floor-to-ceiling domed windows or that they’d have little seating areas in them. The floor looks like it’s a hundred years old, and I mean it in a good way. I love the worn-in hardwood look. I expected a mancave to the extreme when I imagined Mont’s house, but his furniture is light and airy. There is more than one mid-century piece that, even in my current condition, makes me drool. He’s got an array of wicker, metal cage-looking furniture, an antique sofa and settee, a dining set straight out of the eighteen hundreds with a big blocky table, an impressive handmade live edge wood bench, and heavy-looking carved chairs. His space is eclectic. I like eclecticism. I could never decide on just one thing from one era. There’s been so much good history when it comes to furniture and art. I don’t have the money to afford things like this, but I can dream and make a ton of online pinboards.