Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“So, Matthew, tell me, we were discussing proportion,” Vivienne says. Being French, they have no qualms about discussing sex in the middle of the day in a corner store.
“We were not discussing anything like that.” I try to change the subject, giving Vivienne my narrowed eyes, hoping she gets it.
“Oh, okay. Sorry, we weren’t discussing if you have a big penis or not. Ma faute.” My bad, she ends that sentence.
“She’ll tell you I’m like a horse.”
I roll my eyes.
“Tell her.” He points to Vivienne
“I’m not telling her anything because I don’t know anything. And really, Matthew, a horse?” I watch him smirk.
“Okay, fine, not a horse, but close to it.” He motions with his hands. “Big.”
Vivienne can’t stop laughing and for the next hour the two of them trade sex jokes while I pretend that I’m not with them. By the end of the hour, we have plans to meet up the next time we are home. Which is in about a week.
When we say goodbye Vivienne whispers in my ear, “J'espère que tu vas prendre ton pied!” She did not just tell me she hopes I get properly fucked in the middle of the store.
“I don’t know what she said, but we should do it,” Matthew says, holding my hand while we walk away.
“She said she hopes that the medicine you got for your crabs works.” I smile up at him, then down at our hands. It feels like we’ve been doing this forever, yet last week I didn’t even know him.
Chapter Eleven
Matthew
When I got home and saw that Karrie wasn’t anywhere, my heart sped up a bit, not sure why, but I just wanted her there. Must have run up and down the stairs in two seconds flat. When she told me she was having coffee I ran down there. Literally. She was sitting with her friend Vivienne, who is a hoot. The way she switched from English to French made it look so natural and then hearing Karrie speaking French, my cock had never been harder. I made a mental note to ask her to speak French to me while I eat her.
“I don’t know what she said, but we should do it,” I tell her while I grab her hand in mine as we walk down the street.
“She said she hopes that the medicine you got for your crabs works.” She smiles up at me and then looks down at our hands.
I stop walking, throwing my head back and laughing at this comment.
“You guys were talking about my dick?” I ask her, turning to face her, pushing the hair away from her face with my free hand. I lift our hands up together, kissing her fingers that are linked with mine.
“Seriously, after everything I just said that’s the only thing you thought about?” She turns to continue walking, dragging me with her. “I’m starving,” she says, smelling the aroma in the air. It smells like barbecue, making my stomach grumble also.
“You have a grill at home?” I ask her, walking across the street to where I see a butcher.
“Yes, but I…” she says, following me into the butcher shop. “I don’t know if it works.”
“Whatever, we can pan cook it if anything. Can I get two Rib eye steaks about eight ounces each?” I ask the butcher. “What do you want?”
“You just ordered two.”
“For me. I’m training, babe, got to eat the protein. We’ll take three then.” My hand lets go of hers, but only for my arm to wrap around her shoulders, pulling her toward me.
She smiles at me and it lights up her eyes. Her face goes soft. I lean down and softly kiss her lips.
I pay the butcher as we walk home holding hands, not saying anything. I feel peace, which is a feeling I haven’t felt, well ever.
I feel settled, almost like if something happens, it will all be okay.
“We should make some baked potatoes with those steaks,” I tell her while she unlocks the door and almost stumbles into the boxes that fill up the entrance.
“What the hell is all this?” she asks, looking at about fifteen to twenty boxes that are scattered around.
“It’s my stuff. My mom shipped my clothes and stuff.” I assess her while she takes in the entrance. “And that box over there”—I point to the white boxes—“are T-shirts and jerseys and stuff to sign for the foundation. Grab yourself one for the next game.” I walk to the kitchen.
“I already bought mine,” she says from behind me, having me stop mid-step, turning to her.
“You bought my jersey?” I ask her softly, my heart beating fast, my hands becoming clammy. I don’t know why it’s a big deal, but it is. I’ve always had people cheering for me, wearing my jersey, asking for my signature. It was always just a thing, but now knowing that she bought it. She bought it, not that I gave it to her, or made her. It’s something. It’s everything.