Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
He’s a regular belly rub slut.
I shake my head at his antics, rubbing gently and cooing a kind ‘good morning’. Once he’s calmed down, I lie back in bed with my arm behind my head and think about my dream . . . and last night. Autumn’s lips and tongue, the way she tasted, and her responsiveness are seared into my brain. None of it’s helpful for my hard-on that has returned, pulsing and leaking underneath the sheet.
Following Autumn to the club and pursuing her was a spontaneous decision, the kiss even more so. Professionally, it probably wasn’t the best move, but personally, I loved every second of it. The way she was prickly, challenging me and combating me, only to yield when our lips touched?
A man could live a very long, very full life and not have such an experience.
Xerxes jumps off the bed, and I get up, walking naked through my apartment, my stiff dick leading the way like a spear. It’s one of the prides of my life—my living space, not my dick. Though I’m not ashamed of that body part, either.
Unlike some of the other fashion moguls I know of, I didn’t purchase one of the newer constructions, trying to be nouveau riche. Those all feel like soulless high-rises that smack of pretension and wealth to me.
Instead, I renovated an older apartment. It was built in the period between the world wars, and as such, it has a lot of the charming touches that modern apartments lack.
Yes, there are challenges. Insulation is terrible, and sometimes I feel like I might run out of electrical sockets or overload the building’s wiring. But it’s all worth it for the view from my balcony, nothing famous, but a regular Parisian neighborhood, complete with a small park, is perfect for me.
I make myself a simple breakfast of warm muesli and juice. Xerxes gets lightly seared beef bites in his bowl. Yes, my dog eats better than some people. But if I can spoil anyone, I can spoil him.
“Will you be a good boy while I’m at work?” I ask Xerxes.
On a whim, I grab a link of sausage from the refrigerator to add to my bowl, but just as I sit down, Xerxes comes flying over, jumping to snatch the sausage from my hand.
“You little shit nugget!” I yell, chasing the naughty monster. Xerx runs across the living room, keeping the couch between us so I can’t steal back his prize. He pauses on the far side long enough to bite the sausage in half, swallowing both too-big bites almost without chewing. I glare, my hands on the back of the sofa as I measure the best way to reach him. “You wanna see if Yorkies can fly?”
“Arf!”
“Keep it up,” I tell him as I give up, knowing there’s no use in fighting for a sausage that’s already gone. I sit and start quickly eating my breakfast. “Your days might be numbered.”
Xerxes tilts his head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as if he’s laughing at me. He might be. He knows my threats are as empty as his perpetually hollow stomach.
Once my bowl and Xerxes’s are empty, I toss them in the dishwasher. After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of running pants and a tight white cotton tank-top before putting on my favorite pair of Asics, ready for my morning’s activities.
Outside, I stop at the corner to talk with Madame Laurent. Seventy-seven years old, she comes every day to her little corner station to sell baguettes. She says it’s mostly to keep herself busy and entertained in her old age since her husband died, but I suspect it’s also because she needs the small amount of income she earns each day.
“Good morning!” I greet her, winking and bowing grandly as I take her soft-skinned, bony hand. “When are you going to answer my deepest prayers and become my bride?”
Madame Laurent rolls her eyes, waving me off. “Oh, hush, you scoundrel! You know I’m too much woman for you!”
I grin, placing a kiss on her arthritic knuckles. “Perhaps. How are you this morning, Madame?”
“The back is acting up, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” she assures me. “The doctors tell me that it’s the rheumatism. But, eh . . . what can I expect at my age?” she says with a lift of her bony shoulder.
“Well I think you should expect the best at any age. If you are correct, you’re not surprised. If you’re incorrect, you can obsessively talk about it, disgusting bowel movements and all, and no one bats an eye.” Charmed at my irreverence, she giggles, the sound a lovely reminder of a younger Madame Laurent. “And tomorrow, can I get one of your wonderful baguettes?”
“I’ll give you one, if you give me yours!” she teases saucily, making me laugh.