Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
"You could say that."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“WAX ON, WAX OFF”
Quinn
“This is all well and good,” I protest, trying in vain to stay polite and not flip him off, but I’m getting pissed. “But when do I get to really do anything?”
“Wait, so toe-curling sex on a beach in Maine and in the club don’t qualify as doing anything?” Adriano gives me a look with challenge in his eyes. “You have higher expectations than I thought.”
“You know what I mean, Adriano,” I say chidingly. “You know!” We are once more in a private room in the club and I’m waiting not so patiently for my lesson. He’s honestly being a bit humble at the moment, if I’m being totally honest. There’s been a lot more than toe-curling sex on the beach; the stripes along my ass, the chafing on my wrists, and the delicious euphoric afterglow of a night of kinky sex still have me a little woozy.
I wanted to get straight to the fancy weapons, which I am oh-so-aware that he owns in spades, but Mr. Safety Pants decided the best thing to do was for me to memorize a list of emergency numbers and trusted contacts, drive me around Boston to show me the best places to disappear, and teach me ways to recognize danger.
“Wax on, wax off,” he says cryptically.
“Wax what off? What kind of kinky shit do you have up your sleeve now?” Still, I’m curious and the phrase sounds vaguely familiar.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know The Karate Kid?”
I screw my face up, trying to remember. It’s there somewhere. “Remember, I’m younger than you are!” We discovered the other day that I’m nine years his junior. Some days it feels like nine hours, some days it feels like a lifetime.
“Fuck,” he growls in that way of his that makes me wet. “I’m itching to spank your ass just for your ignorance alone.”
“Uh, if I’m going to get punished for not knowing pop culture, I’m screwed. Remember? Strict grandparents and the lack of attention span to watch more than a commercial?”
That only gets me another grumble and stern look. I silently do a little celebratory dance.
“The kid in the movie wants to be trained to do badass karate so he can defeat the bullies, but his mentor makes him do things like sand his deck, paint his fence, and wax his cars. Daniel, that’s the kid’s name, gets pissed because he wants to get to the good stuff… ya know, punching and kicking. However, he eventually realizes that the chores he did—like wax on, wax off—were preludes and a necessary foundation for effectively using karate.”
“Sounds boring as fuck. In other words, I have been waxing on and waxing off for fucking days.”
That gets a little lip twitch, which is always a point in my favor.
OK, so he's also had some fun with me at the club, naturally. He is very skilled in the use of his hands, his mouth—most notably his tongue—and most especially that famous magical dick of his.
He's gone for hours at a time, though. And since I'm not the kind of girl that sticks around, I'm dying over here. I'm ready to travel again. I've even run through various scenarios involving me sneaking onto a bus and traveling somewhere, just for a night. I start to feel itchy, restless, when I'm in one place for too long, even if I do love it.
Our self-defense lessons have become the highlight of my day, not including, of course, the times we spend in the private rooms. But I want more.
Adriano tugs off his tee in that gloriously masculine way of his where it’s one swift move of muscles and efficiency, tosses it to the dirty laundry, and tugs on a clean tee. God, I could watch the man trim his beard and slide on deodorant all day long. There’s something endearing about the everyday.
"When are you going to teach me actual moves?" Maybe I'm a little impatient. I have a feeling that if Adriano and I ever became that old married couple that spent decades together, we would fully establish this routine where we would need to buy something pedestrian, like, say, a ceiling fan, and I would pick the first one off the shelf, while he stood there in the aisle, reading safety recalls and reviews, and checking out the longevity of the lives of the stupid ceiling fans.
"Patience, grasshopper," he says, doing that manly stern thing where he raises one eyebrow at me. "Today, I'm teaching you something that you'll be pretty good at right out of the gate."
I give him a curious look, because I already know when he is giving me shit about something.
"Blow jobs?" I say, giving him a little wink.
"Keep going," he says, undeterred.
"Hmm. My sharp tongue and quick wit!"