Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
I also have a conference this afternoon with Brody’s guidance counselor to go over the expectations for the remainder of the year. Since he was expelled from his private school, I enrolled him in the local public school, and he’s behind on credits since he failed so many classes. Paola damn near lost her shit when she found out our son is attending a public school, but I don’t care—and I told her as much. My sister and I both went to a public school, and we turned out just fine.
I’m about ten minutes into my run when the door opens, and a woman I’ve never seen before walks in. Instinctually, my eyes roam over her, taking her in. Caramel hair with various shades of blond highlights are pulled up into a loose ponytail. Tanned, toned legs are barely covered with yellow cotton shorts—if you can even call them that. I’d bet all my money, if she turned around, I’d see a hint of her ass cheeks peeking out. I chuckle at the shoes on her feet. Instead of wearing tennis shoes, she’s sporting light pink fluffy boots. Her face is free of makeup, and her tits look real—perky but not in the so-perky-they-hit-her-chin sort of way.
It’s not often I see a naturally beautiful woman free of plastic surgery and makeup. Especially living in the places where I’ve lived. You want a fake woman? They’re a dime a dozen. I’ve learned the hard way women are good for one thing, to sink into and find release with. It doesn’t matter if their tits are real or fake. As long as they can handle their own in the bedroom and understand what the term no strings means, we’re good to go.
Realizing I’m still staring at her, I drag my eyes back to the television, but when she comes over and steps onto the treadmill next to me, I can’t help but check out her backside. I was right. Her ass is firm, just like the rest of her body, and her shorts are so tiny, the bottom swells of her cheeks are popping out. She has this thickness to her that I can imagine grabbing ahold of in bed. This woman is either new to this building or has changed her workout time because I damn sure would’ve remembered seeing her here before. Then again, I haven’t been around much for the past several years, so it’s possible we just haven’t crossed paths.
When I force my gaze to move from her ass back up to her face, I notice she’s staring at the treadmill screen with the most adorable look. Her nose is scrunched up in confusion… or maybe frustration. Either way, she’s staring at the gym equipment like it’s from another planet. Based on her furry boots, I’m going to assume she’s new to working out.
“Need some help?”
She turns her attention to me and hits me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like getting lost in an ocean of warmth. I’m in such shock by how beautiful she is, I almost trip over my feet. In fear of face-planting, I grab the emergency stopper and yank it out, bringing the machine to a sudden halt. Not realizing how quickly it would stop, my feet keep running, and my stomach hits the front of the machine, causing me to release a loud grunt.
She smiles wide at the scene in front of her and giggles. Fucking giggles. I almost ended up facedown on a potentially deadly machine, and she’s laughing at me.
“I think I should be asking you that question.” Her words are wrapped in a cute Southern twang. It’s not strong, but enough to tell me she’s not from here. When I look at her pink shirt, I notice it reads Southern girls do it better across her chest. I would definitely like to find out what it is exactly they do better.
I clear my throat and force my attention back up to her face, again. Her eyes dance with mirth, telling me she caught me checking out her assets.
“I was reading your shirt,” I say dumbly as a way of explanation.
“Uh-huh,” she says with humor in her voice. She goes back to looking at the treadmill, except now with what looks like determination in her eyes. Is she willing it to turn on?
“You just pick a program, enter the info, and hit start,” I explain, pointing at the program button.
She lets out a sigh and presses the button, then begins to enter all the necessary info:
Sex: female—damn right she is.
Age: 24—ten years my junior… a bit young for me, but I’m an equal opportunist. Age is just a number, after all.
Weight…
She looks at me and gives me a mock glare. “You already know my age. At least let my weight remain a mystery.”