Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“A lesson in humiliation, I think you mean,” I croak back, right before the knob twists, and the door swings inward.
Chapter ten
Carissa
My mom has seen and heard a lot of shit. She’s a therapist, and she’s had some tough cases.
I’m still not sure if anything prepared her to find a discarded disguise, our pile of (somewhat) soiled clothes shed in the kitchen, and me tangled up and naked in a deconstructed shower with Jackson Wilder.
My ex-boss. The love of my life. Uber-rich world-famous celebrity, golden boy, star in the dreams and fantasies of millions worldwide, the face on posters in more houses than I could ever count, and the voice played on the radio and every other space that exists for music.
Fuck, she knows who he is.
She just doesn’t know how this came about.
At least she had the grace to tell us she was sorry for walking in on us, which she naturally did because when she called my name, we both froze up. She assumed something terrible or bizarre or maybe both had happened or was currently happening, so she rushed in. When she found us completely naked in the tub in a rather compromising position, but thankfully somewhat covered by the fallen shower curtain, she simply took in my horrified face and Wilder’s garbled apology, turned around, and shut the door behind her.
She was kind enough to finish making dinner and stick Wilder’s clothes outside the bathroom door. I left him to get dressed in the bathroom while I dashed to my room to find a pair of jeans and a lightweight, oversized crewneck sweater with a faded-out, peeling logo of a bear and a barnacle dancing on the front. The name, Barnacle Bears, is missing a few letters because they’ve worn away, but you can pretty much guess what it says just by looking at the picture.
Although do most people know what a barnacle is?
A short while later, we’re seated at our table in the kitchen, and that’s what I’m thinking about to avoid thinking about the obvious.
Wilder’s seated to my right, and Mom sits across from me and Wilder.
I don’t know if any of the furniture really matches, but this table stands out. Mom went through an obsession with live edge, so the table looks like it was freshly cut out of a forest. Instead of chairs, there are two live-edge benches with square metal legs.
Despite our lack of… erm, care, the roast is juicy and tender. The baked potatoes are near perfect too, and Mom did a great job with the lemon pepper carrots and the gravy.
There was no question that Wilder was going to stay for dinner. There was no way he was going to be forced to do a walk of shame out of the house after what happened. He asked me if it would be okay if he stayed, mostly so he could apologize to my mom and try to explain. I could have bawled as I was so thankful he wasn’t going to bail without a backward glance.
Not that I think Wilder is the kind of man to do something like that.
If I gave myself a big heaping pile of honesty, it would be better if he did leave. He doesn’t need to apologize. This isn’t his fault, and there’s nothing to say sorry over. We both understand this can’t be a thing.
So why am I sitting here, so freaking happy that he’s sharing this bench with me, happy beyond belief that he’s here, practically glowing from the best sex of my life, and it wasn’t even penis in vagina sex? There’s still a lethal dose of guilt and embarrassment lingering over the glow and happiness and the whole deal of my mom sitting across from me and witnessing it all after err… witnessing it all.
Wilder is back in his shirt and those tight red pants. He left the plaid blazer off. I’m trying to formulate words to offer some kind of explanation for the fuck fest fiasco that went down, but all my brain wants to do is focus on popping another lady boner because I can literally see the outline of Wilder’s thick erection in those freaking pants whenever I look down.
Also?
He smells good.
A little bit like my shampoo. It mixes well with the cologne lingering on his shirt and his own natural scent.
How can I not be distracted when I know what it feels like to have his tongue touch my asshole?
Fuck, fuck, fuckkkkkk.
I stuff a piece of roast in my mouth and glance up at my mom. It’s an eye glance only because I keep my head bent over my plate.
She’s all grace. Serene. She has long, dark hair with subtle highlights down and curling around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a black blouse tucked into gray slacks. She’s professional without being in your face about it. She doesn’t wear things like pearls or expensive jewelry, and her footwear is always practical. Flats, never heels.