Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
The dogs are still licking and nipping at my hands like I’ve been dipped in bacon grease, and I appreciate the moral support, but it tickles and I need to concentrate.
“That’s my name,” I say wittily, crossing my arms in a subtle attempt to wipe my now-slobbery hands on my borrowed shirt. “And you’re…you. I mean, thank you for the rescue, because things were looking dire there for a minute, Mr...”
Am I life-ing incorrectly? How can I still not know his name at this point? The point where I almost give him an orgasm and he helps me pee. It seems like a few vital fucking steps were skipped in this relationship.
You’re never going to let that go, are you?
Probably not.
He starts down the stairs at a slow enough pace for me to fully appreciate the way his steel-blue Henley and jeans both cling to his lean frame. Those shoulders. Those quads. That ass.
I can’t see that ass, but I stared at it for hours before I saw his face and I’m betting it still looks amazing.
I’ve compared him to a Yeti and a dragon assassin, but right now he’s hitting all my rugged-outdoorsman-in-a-coffee-commercial buttons, with a dash of librarian on the side. I want to celebrate some moments, is what I’m saying. (Man, whoever made those commercials knew exactly how to make me cry and want coffee. Full snaps for those heroes.)
“My name is Michael,” he says when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.
“Michael?”
“Michael,” he repeats with a look that says he wonders if I’m all here yet.
I’m trying not to be disappointed, because I was thinking his name might be something dragony, or at least Turkish. Like Arturo or Kerim. Michael makes him sound like the angelic-but-vanilla boy next door, though none of my neighbors were ever that good-looking.
A sudden memory of his hand cupping my head as he fucked my mouth has me breaking out in a sweat, all the blood in my body rushing south at a dizzying speed. Okay fine. Maybe I could get used to calling out his name in the throes of ecstasy.
Harder, Michael. I’m coming, Michael.
I need to stop before I embarrass myself.
“I see it’s still snowing.” I had to say something instead of repeating his name again, and it’s perfectly normal to make an obvious statement about the weather while hoping the pile of blankets on top of me is thick enough to hide my new tent pole of an erection.
“That’s one word for it.” He frowns thoughtfully as he walks closer, his gray-socked feet silent on the hardwood floor. “You sound more coherent now. Are you feeling any better?”
Well, my head aches, my ankle hurts, my dick is swollen, and now I’m wondering what random idiocy I was sputtering earlier that my five-word weather report sounds coherent. “Great. I’m great. Much better, I think. What time is it? How long have I been here?”
“It’s around three in the afternoon. You’ve been here for about four hours now.”
“Four?” I try to do the math in my head. I went for my walk at a little after nine, and if I’ve been here for four hours, I was wandering for two at the most, which means I can’t have gone that far. How is that possible? It felt like days. Still, someone has to have noticed my absence by now. I wonder if the band ever showed up. I hope they weren’t still trying to drive in this.
“Where—” My voice cracks, and I start again. “Where is here, exactly? How far are we from the ski lodge? Is it drivable? I just…I need to get back as soon as possible.”
I need to be in control of my surroundings again. And until I quit—which, like I said, I am planning to do—I’m still obligated.
What if the band never shows up? Are you really going to spoil an older couple’s anniversary by leaving them hanging for entertainment?
Ugh. Fine. I’ll sing one song. That ballad they wanted to dance to. Maybe “Rocky Road to Dublin.” Then I’m leaving. Everyone has music on their phones these days. They don’t need a band or even a DJ when they have Bluetooth and a speaker.
“It isn’t that far.”
While I was planning my guilt-fueled song list, he’d set down his book on a nearby chair and moved closer. Now he’s standing by the foot of the bed, his face expressionless.
“How far isn’t that far?”
Michael slips off his glasses and sets them down on a side table before answering. “We’re still on the property. It’s less than two miles if you take the trail.”
He mentioned something about a trail before. “Less than two miles?”
At his nod, the future movie about my struggle for survival becomes a blooper reel.
CHAPTER SIX
“I can’t believe I missed the stupid trail.”
“If you hadn’t walked out in a storm and gotten turned around in the woods, you would have seen the signs for it near those bushes you mentioned,” he assures me, but I can tell his sympathy is now warring with his amusement. Well, sure. Who wouldn’t find this funny? Oh, that’s right. The idiot who managed to get lost beside a well-marked trail.