Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Yet she was trying her damndest to give me the cold shoulder and pretend it had been just as fake as our supposed relationship.
And me? Well, I guess that not-so-wise part of my brain saw that as a challenge. She wanted to pretend she felt nothing? Maybe I’d entertain myself by finding out just how far I could push things before her facade finally cracked.
8
PEARL
I learned something today. Apparently, the blurry outline of a naked man could be just as dangerous as the real thing. Also, blurry or not, it was very easy to tell where certain parts were and roughly how big they were. In other words, yes, Dean Slater was a shower, not a grower. Well, I guessed maybe he could be both. Maybe the thing was catastrophically big–big enough to swing around and clear the table if he got carried away. So big that if I ever made the mistake of giving into my carnal desires, it might just get stuck. Deliciously, erotically, and tragically stuck on Dean Slater’s beautiful cock.
I pinched my eyes closed, shaking my head and trying to erase the image of Dean Slater gyrating and slapping things with his huge, probably perfect penis. That wasn’t even erotic. It was just… ugh. I was losing my mind, bit by bit.
I turned my music up a little louder just as I saw Dean emerge from the shower and back into view through the frosted glass door to the bathroom. His shape was dark against the white tiles. I saw the broad triangle of his back and narrow waist. I saw the big, muscle-clad arms and long, thick legs.
Two things in life made me want to lick on sight: ice cream, and long legs. I caught my tongue slipping across my lips and snapped my mouth shut.
Bad, Pearl. No licking. And if I was going to lick anyone, it couldn’t be him. Dean thought I wanted him. The big bastard practically had it written all over his face. It was in those twinkling eyes and subtle smirks. He knew what he looked like, and he was happy to assume I wanted to jump his bones because of it.
Well, the joke was on him. Because when I swore something off, I meant it. Actually, I wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Once, I’d sworn off caffeine. Two days later, I had what I self-diagnosed as a caffeine withdrawal headache. I ended up grabbing some kind of pre-workout energy drink at one of those stores that sells protein powder and vitamins. Without reading the label, I chugged the whole thing in a few minutes. And then I read the warning label.
It turned out the drink had about ten times the level of caffeine in a Red Bull. I was only supposed to drink a quarter of it, assess my tolerance, and then continue.
By the time I got home, I was so hyper-dosed on caffeine that time became a mere suggestion. I could’ve counted the molecules of air passing by me and had time for tea after. A fly passed my head and I saw into his eyes, understood that he was working hard to provide for his family, and knew his wings were bothering him and had been for some time.
I didn’t just shake or fidget, I vibrated. I became the caffeine.
When I finally came down from my caffeine overdose, I vowed again that I would never again consume the stuff. That vow lasted about four days, because my friends wanted to take a trip to Atlanta and tour the Coca-Cola factory. The tour ended with literal fountains of soda spurting across the room in joyful little jets that could land right in your cup. There was even a dispenser to try dozens of sodas from all over the world.
I folded my arms, glaring at nothing in particular. Fine. Maybe I needed to admit I didn’t historically have an impressive history when it came to swearing things off and sticking to it. But that didn’t mean I was going to fail this time. This time, I was going to succeed. There would be no overdoses on Slater cock, no matter how often he waved that thing around in front of me.
In fact, screw men. Screw all of them. I thought back to Eric and his feeble attempts to reach out and “apologize” a few weeks after The Crackening, 2022. Naturally, his apologies had come just a few minutes before he hit me up for money. Getting “laid off” had been hard on him, he said. I told him to try asking the other members of his harem, then hung up and went full Casper the Ghost on him, just like he deserved.
I was yanked from my thoughts when Dean opened the glass door with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. I felt like a pilgrim seeing color TV for the first time. The blurry version of him was frustratingly sexy enough. But the real thing? I wish I could say I did something smooth like casually look back at my phone. Maybe even averting my eyes to the side would’ve done the trick. Even some conspicuous cartoon-style “I’m not up to anything” whistling would’ve been better than what I did.