Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Her bedroom door opens and I clear my throat as if her stepping into the hall means she can also read my thoughts. She's gotten dressed, but she looks as great in a t-shirt and tight jeans as she did in her tank top with no bra and those tiny little sleep shorts. She was torturing me.
I clear my throat again, trying to dispel the memory of the warmth between her thighs as she worked against me in my lap. She refuses to make eye contact with me and it annoys me, but I know that now is not the time to argue about it. If I know anything, it's that I've discovered that Slick is a one-step-forward two-steps-back kind of woman. She can't get clear of her own thoughts long enough to live fully in the moment.
Her sitting on my lap during the panic attack yesterday and her subsequent removal because I couldn't handle the vulnerability I felt was her step forward. Her running was her two steps back moments ago. I can't imagine the possibilities of what her one step forward the next time will mean. My ultimate goal will mean nothing but trouble for the both of us—getting inside of her, discovering the sound she makes when she's full of me. But at this point, I'd settle on having my mouth wrapped around her nipple.
I try to give her a slow grin, something a little devious, but she won't look at me. She clears her throat as she approaches, finding something extremely important across the room as she speaks. “You have PT in an hour,” she says.
I nod my agreement, loving the sight of her lips still plump from our kiss. I want to trace the redness left behind from my stubble on her neck with my tongue.
My physical therapist Anthony has the patience of a saint. I imagine he'd be a great kindergarten teacher, dealing with erratic children by the way he gives me smiles of approval rather than appearing at all irritated when I can't do what he's expecting. My body aches and time drags by, minutes feeling like hours. I’m not exactly eager to get done with today, just knowing that Ugly is coming.
I feel like I need to have a conversation with Slick before he shows up. I don't want to not spend time with her like I did this morning, but at the same time, I don't want our other teammates to know. I'm not normally the type of man that would insist on hiding anything like that from my friends, but this situation is different.
The guys have watched and noticed me watching her. They always tease me when she's not within earshot about making my move, but being taunted about being attracted to someone and actually following through with it aren't the same thing. Several other guys are insistent on not getting involved with anyone closely linked to the club. It's messy.
I can hear my grandfather telling me to not shit where I eat. Those words of wisdom came after breaking up with my first girlfriend as a teenager and still having to return to the small grocery store that we both worked at. I was miserable.
I didn't want it to end two weeks later. I beat the guy's ass in the parking lot that had the nerve to show up to pick her up from work. I got fired. She was my last girlfriend, my only girlfriend. It changed me so much at the time, but now I can't even remember her name.
It was such a big moment for me and now it doesn't matter in the way that I know I shouldn't complicate my work situation with private matters. I can reason all of that with myself and I try in an effort to keep from complaining to Anthony that every part of my body hurts. That I can barely catch my breath as if I've run a marathon, when all I've done was walk on a crutch across the room.
“Let's do some cool down stretches,” Anthony says, mere seconds before I open my mouth to insist that I'm done for the day, that my body can't handle any more. Either the man's a mind reader or he's paying more attention to me than I realize. I nod so quickly in agreement that he laughs. “You're doing a great job, man. Making really good progress.”
I’m not going to argue with him. I’m not going to tell him that walking with a crutch shouldn’t be this fucking hard. I feel like a foal, a brand-new baby horse, trying to stand for the first time. It's frustrating and emasculating, but I suck it up, biting the inside of my cheek.
As I fall a little too heavily on the bench he directs me to, I've done my best to keep my eyes off of Slick. But the times I have looked in her direction, I have found her fully invested in what Anthony is having me do. She hasn't pulled out her phone or picked up a magazine from the stack on the table beside where she's sitting. Maybe it made me work a little bit harder in physical therapy.