Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Alright, that’s it. It’s the chainsaw for you, dearie. I’m sorry, but you have to come down.”
My dick doesn’t give a shit. He punches at my fly like he’d welcome a fight with that whirring-chained mothersawer.
I keep telling myself that If I were a gentleman, I’d go out and help her.
But I’m no savior. I’m no gentleman. I don’t even want this. She shouldn’t be here.
“It’s time, sweetheart. It’s time.”
Oh, shit!
There’s Aspen, coming out of the garden shed, which looks more like a second small house in the yard with all weird square angles like the big house, holding an actual freaking chainsaw. A real one, not one of those much lower-powered plug-in things.
She drops it on the ground, tears the cover off the blade, then picks it up again and studies it, her nose crinkled.
I asked you to look after my sister, not let her maim herself cleaning up your mess of a yard, dickweed.
I can practically hear Jace in my head.
I shoot out of my chair and nearly collapse on the floor. It feels like I’ve been dick punched. What the hell? I fall on my side, gasping. I’m sure my face is ten thousand degrees, redder than red, but all I care about is the violent pain shooting through my groin.
These jeans are normally not so tight.
I’m normally not as hard as a steel pipe in them.
Sex hasn’t been a priority for me in years. Too busy staying alive, I guess, to worry about things like that.
But I’m worried about it now.
For the love of mac and cheese, my jeans have trapped my dick. They’ve eaten my dick, and they’re not letting go. I’ve had a lot of painful things happen to me, but this…this is the worst that I can remember in recent history. Never underestimate the crippling effects of a penile injury. It’s a little bit like chopping your own foot off. With a spoon.
Should I try to sack myself?
No. I should undo the zipper and—
No. What the hell am I thinking? It’s quite possible that I’m not because my brain has been utterly obliterated.
Am I drooling? Shit, I think I’m drooling. There’s wetness on the floor below my mouth. Yup, that’s me. Salivating all over the place because I’m going to start gagging right away, and my spit has nowhere to go when it wants to all come up so badly. I barely tasted those eggs earlier, but I don’t want them to make a reappearance and give me a chance to appreciate just how blackened they were.
I flop onto my back, and there.
My jeans shift just enough that their toothy maws of eternal sharklike destruction finally release my man meat. It feels like a chewed-up sausage at this point, but when I fumble with the button, tear open the fly, and run my hand down my length overtop my boxers, I find that it’s in one piece. There’s no blood or anything. Thank god. Because it feels bloody. It feels destroyed.
“Mother of grilled cheese!”
You have got to be kidding me right now.
How? How long has she been standing there?
Not long, I guess, because Aspen whips around while I race to get my jeans done up. My dick still feels bruised, and shoving it back in there feels like stuffing it into the maw of a mulcher. I very nearly make a noise of pain, but I bite it back, even if my stomach spins a circle and I taste bitter bile at the back of my throat.
“This isn’t what it looks like.” I force myself to zip up and get into a crouch. I can barely face her.
“Yeah…” She clears her throat. “You weren’t just rubbing one out on the floor of your office or anything.” It looks like she just licked a lemon’s asshole. “We’ll go with that because I can’t imagine what you would have been doing otherwise, and I honestly don’t want to know.”
“I was having an issue!”
“With your…with your wiener?”
Jace would kill me for discussing my wiener with his little sister.
Or…would he?
In his letter, he did write that he wanted us to get married. That he couldn’t imagine two people better for each other than us. After I left, he must have taken some hard hits to the head.
“It was pinched, okay? My jeans…they trapped it at a bad angle. It felt like it was being amputated. I had to free it and then check for damage.”
She quirks a brow. “So you weren’t rubbing one out?”
I cannot crouch here and have this conversation without straight-up dying.
Neither of us looks at the other for a long beat of silence. The office is a thousand degrees of magma-hot humiliation.
“Erm, okay, so you were having a medical emergency. Alright, fair enough. Has it been resolved now?” she asks.
My dick is still hard through all of it, so I guess that means it’s still functioning. “I’m fine.” Other than the pain throbbing through it. Was that happening before the jaws of steel incident?