Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 17
Asher
For ages, men have gone to great lengths to get laid. They’ve acted outrageously when the sex is good, buying their women extravagant gifts and whispering poetic words of love.
Me?
I apparently cut short my Friday meeting on the East Coast to fly back to Vegas to see Hannah. I’m making my way to her house straight from the airport, wondering if it’s “too late” to stop by unannounced.
I don’t really care, though. It’s been a month since we’ve started this arrangement. Rather than getting bored, I’m wanting her even more. It doesn’t help that I’ve been without her for three nights. Jacking off just hasn’t cut it for me.
When I pull up to the curb in front of her house, I’m relieved to see her living room light on. It’s getting close to midnight. I’d realized there was a good chance she’d be asleep by now. I have no clue whether I’d still go up to her house if it was dark, knowing damn well it would be rude, but that’s not something I have to worry about. She’s clearly up.
I get out of my car, lock it, and don’t think about it again. I’ve given up being worried about my car in this neighborhood, figuring the benefits of being with Hannah far outweigh the cons of having my car vandalized.
I bound up the porch steps, pull her screen door open, and knock lightly. From inside, the sound of the TV can faintly be heard. After only a few moments, the door opens.
And Christ… she looks… just awful.
Hannah is wrapped up in a big fleece robe. Her hair is a stringy mess, there are dark circles under her eyes, and her nose is beet red. She’s holding a wad of tissues in one hand, the other clutching her robe as if she’s trying to leech warmth from it.
“Hey,” she says, her voice sounding like a frog’s croak.
“Jesus, Hannah,” I say as I push inside. When she backpedals, I close the door, engaging the lock. “What’s wrong with you?”
She waves the hand with the tissues as if nothing’s wrong with her, then she croaks, “Oh… just a cold or something. I thought I’d be over it by now.”
“You’ve been sick all week?” I ask as she shuffles back to the couch. There’s a pillow, two blankets she must have been laying under, and entire coffee table overflowing with cold medicines.
“What’s today? Friday?”
What the fuck? She doesn’t know what day it is? “It’s Friday night. Have you been working at my house all week while I’ve been gone?”
Hannah crawls back under the blankets on her couch, lying on her side to face me. She dabs at her nose with her tissues. “Of course I’ve been working. It’s my job.”
Rolling my eyes, I squat beside the couch. I touch the back of my hand to her forehead, finding it warm and clammy. “Have you been running a fever?”
“On and off,” she replies as she nods to the coffee table. “Been taking Tylenol. It’s been working mostly.”
“I should probably take you to the doctor,” I say. She looks like fucking death warmed over.
Hannah shakes her head. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold. I’m sure I’ll feel better by tomorrow.”
“And you got your medical degree where?” I ask sarcastically.
She smirks, but I see the tiny shudder pass through her, which means she has a chill. “Unfortunately, I’ve been around the block a few times. My immune system isn’t the greatest, so I tend to get a few bad colds a year. I probably picked it up from Hope. Kids spread all kinds of nasty germs from school.”
She’s probably right. I’m sure she knows her own body better than I do.
In some respects, at least. I guarantee I know the area between her legs way better than she ever could.
I should go. She needs rest, and I’m not exactly the maternal caring type. Whenever Michelle was sick, she’d always shoo me away. I’d always been grateful to take the escape.
Still, I find myself asking, “When’s the last time you ate? And are you dehydrated?”
Hannah shrugs. “I’ve been drinking some tea.”
“Jesus,” I mutter as I stand up. “Think you have anything here I can make that you could stomach? Or I can go out for something.”
“I’m sure I have some soup in my pantry,” she answers through what sounds like a rock quarry in the base of her throat.
“I’ll be back.” I pivot toward her tiny kitchen that’s separated from her equally tiny living room by a counter.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and I look over my shoulder at her. She tries to grin, but it comes off as a pathetic grimace. “You’re not getting sex tonight.”
“As if I’d fuck you looking like that,” I retort with an evil smile. She laughs, or at least tries to, but it just sounds as if it hurts.