Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 47615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Abby’s not home yet, and if her text messages about agents and mysterious possible job offers are anything to go by, she’ll be a while yet.
Kicking off my boots in the foyer and dumping my bag, I head straight for my favorite place whenever I get home.
Even though it’s almost a hundred degrees out, I always look forward to a proper hot shower whenever I get home.
I set the air conditioning a little cooler and undress as I walk to my bathroom on the first floor. I barely notice the music playing from Abby’s room.
Figuring she’s left a TV on, or one of her dozen alarms is going off again.
Stuff I know from experience to leave well enough alone.
A grown-up daughter with her own room is one thing, but when they share half the house I’m never even home to enjoy, Abby kinda gets right of way.
Every damned time.
Freshly showered but unshaved and only covering myself with a towel, I head for homecoming pit stop number two.
The refrigerator.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pool deck.
I grin when I flex my pecs, making them dance.
Glad I’ve still got all my fingers and limbs, let alone a fit body, after all those years of dangerous, grueling work.
I guess I’ve still got it.
Whatever it is, it’s a solo routine. Muscles or not.
Flashing myself a broad smile, I figure I may as well have one admirer, even if it is only myself.
Abby’s done well while I’ve been away, by the look of things.
Apart from the place looking better than ever, she’s made sure the pantry and fridge are well stocked with all my favorites.
Cracking the bottled mineral water I can’t get anywhere else, I help myself to fried chicken as I stand in front of the open double doors of the refrigerator. The only other person I expect to see anytime soon is Abby.
But a sudden, loud sound of shock from behind has me turn on my heel.
The towel almost falling from around my waist, I spin around, assessing any real-world threat in a split second and choosing to keep hold of the bucket of fried chicken instead of using it against a would-be prowler, and I, too, am shocked.
But I do an instant double take. Whoever she is, she’s fucking perfect.
Beautiful, I mean.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
“Jen?” I hear myself asking the girl who’s appeared in my kitchen wearing a long white tee shirt and not much else.
“Oh my god!” she gasps loudly, all the color draining from her round cheeks.
Her expression recoils with fright and then horror at the sight of me in just a towel and her in….
Well, just a tee shirt, which she’s quick to pull the front of down, making sure she covers herself.
Her other hand is hard against her chest, between the most perfectly formed breasts I know I’ve seen in my life.
I swear I don’t mean to look, but my eyes move over her sex, covered by the thinnest veil of pure white cotton.
A very primal and very male part of me instantly focuses on it before I move my eyes up, moving past her full chest with stiff, pebbled nipples the size of saucers.
I swallow hard. Or try to, at least.
“Mr. Gray! What are you doing here?” she cries, looking pained at being spotted wearing about as much as I am right now.
“Uhhh. I live here,” I remind her, unable to keep myself from smiling at my own wit.
But it doesn’t cheer her up, and I can see at once she’s torn between explaining herself and running away to put on some more clothes.
“And call me, Kane,” I remark, trying to set her mind at ease. “Mr. Gray sounds so…formal. Like I’m your boss or something,” I add.
But to be honest, I like the sight of Abby’s best friend, Jen, fucking dressed in not much more than I am by the second.
My remark is kind of disarming and making an embarrassing situation easier, I hold out my bucket of chicken.
The only thing I can think of on the fly is to try and set her mind at ease.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Jen,” I comment, setting the cardboard bucket on the counter, which I shift behind and take a seat once she shakes her head in little stabbing movements.
“I mean, you’re all…grown up,” I swallow, unable to take my eyes off her chest now.
Quickly doing the math, Abby’s twenty, and so is her best friend…
All grown up, alright. Jeez. Where does the time go?
“Abby said I could let myself in,” she says hurriedly, flushing redder with each word and with no time for nostalgia right now.
Her own eyes moving, trying to keep track of mine and settling on my chest, which I feel flexing automatically for her benefit.
Guess I still got it after all.