Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Since she’s given me her full name, I might search for her online. It’s a callous thing, my business, but I get so many requests for this service I have to be selective.
A man has to take his business seriously.
Nothing comes up for a few results, telling me she’s not a public figure.
But then I hit upon a search result.
Mia Nelson, Fiction Editor.
I click on it.
Her photo appears.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, rising so quickly it causes Speeder to follow me as I pace up and down the balcony, staring down at her photo. It might not be her, I warn myself.
It’s probably a common name. Not like mine.
A name made for boxing, my coach used to say. A name we can use….
Mia is honest in her bio on the freelancing website, explaining how she doesn’t have much experience. However, she also mentions that she’s written several poems in honor of her late father, and she’s included these in a section where users can offer samples of their work.
It has to be her. It’s too much of a coincidence.
I return to her photo, immediately feeling my world change shape, take shape, as I stare down at her. I imagine the sound she’d make if I kissed her from behind on the neck. Possibly wrap my arms around her body as my hands indulge in all her curves.
She’s young, with flushed red cheeks and dark brown hair – almost black – wavy down to her shoulders. Her eyes are wide and somehow startled, like the world’s a shock to her, like she needs her man – me – to guide her.
Green, jewel-like, those eyes….
She’s wearing an airy white shirt that seems to float around her body but can’t hide her shape.
Her breasts made for massaging, for pleasing….
And for feeding my children.
Our children.
I lean against the balcony railing, squeezing the chilling metal, knowing I have to slow down. And also knowing it will be the greatest challenge of my life, tattooing this woman, the needle trembling in my hand as I struggled not to lose control.
My balls swell.
My manhood is hard already, pushing against my gym shorts as if telling me to find her.
To tear off her clothes.
To guide my throbbing helm to her young entrance and drive deep, hard, and possessively.
“She’s mine.”
I offer the words to the whipping wind.
“She belongs to me.”
Speeder whines and starts running in circles. He was doing that when I found him, and I know it as a sign he is agitated, sensing my mood as usual.
“Sorry, boy.” I kneel and offer him my hand. He ducks his head and nuzzles into it. “I just don’t know how….”
I can feel this way so fast, and with such urgency, I finish silently.
Staring into her eyes, I study her smile, only a small one, as if she can’t force herself to smile fully. Her eyes seem to see me as nobody else ever has, seem to care, and tell me that if I am broken, it won’t stop her.
No, it’s me who needs to stop.
What sort of madness is this?
I’m losing my mind.
She seems overly honest from her profile, sharing that stuff about her customer service job, and she hasn’t offered the best samples for her business.
Writing poetry and editing books aren’t connected.
I want to help her, explain this gently and patiently, and support her in every way I can.
But no – I have to slow down.
Text her back, and be professional.
If I told her the truth of what I really want – the inexplicable and undeniable desire gripping me – she’d block my number.
CHAPTER 2
Mia
I sit in bed, laptop on my knees, no headphones in though I find it easier to work that way.
But Mom might need me. I have to be able to hear her if she calls.
She had another episode a few hours ago, packing a bag and telling me she was leaving. “I’m no good for you. Look at me. Holding you back. Making it so you can’t even be a kid.”
I told her I was not a kid. I’m nineteen, and life has made me grow up fast anyway.
It was the wrong thing to say. Instead, Mom started to cry, dropping her suitcase.
As I held her, she moaned about how much she missed Dad. I cried too.
Of course, I miss him, but I can’t let myself sink too much into the grief. I can’t let it swallow me as it’s swallowed my Mom. It’s my job to keep paying rent on this cruddy apartment, to somehow do it without leaving the house.
The joys of the modern world.
With a laptop and a chat program, I’m able to work as a customer service representative, dealing with complaints for several travel companies. It’s all for less than minimum wage, meaning I work around seventy hours or more some weeks, and then there’s the meager editing work that comes in, my dream….