Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, it had gone the none cute way. The panic stricken oh-my-God-I-have-splooge-in-my-hair way. The his-jism-has-glued-us-together-forever kind of way.
I couldn’t look him in the eye even as he reached out to lovingly stroke my face, especially as Charles Rififi had trotted unseen into the room, seizing the opportunity to lick my left bum cheek. In my squealing shock, I might’ve left a good hunk of hair in Mac’s fingers. I’d hurriedly mumbled something about cleaning myself up and waddle-walked my big slobbery licked bum out of that room as fast as I could.
Well, as fast as I could without making my bum jiggle.
And this morning, I’m embarrassed by this as much as the escape of my emerging inner slut, though distract myself by cleaning the mess Mac made. His mess, but my doing. I should’ve gone straight back to bed after helping him through the door.
‘Good morning.’ At the sound of his sleep-roughened voice, I almost drop the container of yucky chicken all over the floor again. ‘What are you doin’ down there?’ he asks, his head appearing over the island bench. ‘I thought we’d arranged for Louis to have a cooked lunch at school this week?’
‘I’m not packing his food,’ I answer evenly. Okay, so my tone isn’t very even. More acid.
‘Ah.’ His shoes appear in front of me—dark slacks and a pale blue oxford shirt—and as I look up, he holds out his hand. I take it, allowing him to help me stand, then turn away to drop the container of chicken into the rubbish bin. ‘Looks like someone had the beer munchies last night.’
‘Someone.’ I straighten my skirt as though it’s containing my anger as he slides a mug from the shelf. Surely, he’s not going to do the I-was-drunk-and-now-have-amnesia thing? I smooth the front of my cap-sleeved blouse to avoid looking at him. Or kicking him. Although maybe ballet flats aren’t the best thing to kick a unit like him in. ‘Someone who wasn’t me or Louis.’ I peel the room temperature pack of pre-sliced cheddar from the countertop, throwing it into the same bin. ‘Plastic cheese isn’t his thing. He’s more of a Camembert boy.’
‘Where is he this morning?’ Mac fills the mug with water from the dispenser on the fridge, swallowing what looks like a couple of painkillers.
Hells bloody bells. He is going to completely ignore last night as a . . . a thing!
‘He’s in his bedroom,’ I grate out. ‘We were both up early this morning. He’s fed, watered, and raring to go.’
‘I wish I could say the same for myself. Thanks for your help last night with him.’ Yes, Mac. You do that self-effacing hair rub thing. And I hope the after effect is an early onset of male pattern baldness. ‘I didn’t disturb you last night, did I?’
‘When you were mounting a raid on the fridge?’
His expression reflects no recollection of anything. Just a sort of face value examination of the evidence lying in front of him. It makes me so angry—angrier than I’ve ever been. If I hadn’t picked up my pyjamas last night, would we be having the same discussion? Would he be interested to know if we’d fucked? Or would he be suggesting that, in the future, I turn down the heat rather than strip?
Head down to hide my angry tears, I brush past him. ‘Excuse me,’ I mumble. Excuse me for making wrong choices again. He grabs my elbow as I pass.
‘Where are you going?’ His voice is soft, his tone almost tender, his hand slipping from my elbow to my neck.
‘I need to make sure Louis is ready for school.’
‘He is. I checked. He’s lying in the middle of my bed engrossed in cartoons.’
‘But we agreed no TV on school mornings.’ My answer is harsh. Kid’s television programs are new to Louis. When the TV is on, Louis switches off. All executive function powers down, and he becomes glued to the spot. I thought we were going for a middle ground by limiting his exposure, but it looks like I was wrong. And really, that’s not where my harshness stems from.
‘Aye, we did.’ Feeding his hand under my loose hair, he pushes it from my shoulders, angling me against the cabinetry behind. ‘But I needed him occupied for a wee while.’ Mischief glints in his eye.
‘Oh?’ This hits the air a couple of octaves too high.
‘It’s like a riot of colour,’ he murmurs, his gaze roaming over my head as, using both hands, he gathers the mass of my hair at the base of my skull.
‘What are you doing? Ohhh.’ Mmm, God, I like hair pulling. My moan is tremulous, the strands hardwired to the bundle of nerves between my legs.
‘That’s what I want to hear. None of this hiding bullshit.’ One minute, he’s staring down at me, and the next, he’s licking a wet trail across my neck. And kissing me. Oh, kissing. His tongue and lips hot and divine. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten last night?’