Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Customs.
Policies.
However, the whole idea is fucking insane.
And I’ve managed to go through my entire emergency stash of Conté crayons during my best attempt to try to understand as well as process that insanity.
Unfortunately for me, all I’ve successfully accomplished is dwindling my art supplies down to dust.
Dust and unintended smudges.
“Got your text,” June cheerfully says as she approaches me in the lounge chair that I’m occupying on the private dock area. “Where do you wanna-” Her sweet voice unexpectedly cuts itself off to take on a pitch I secretly love to hear. “OhmyGoya, what is that thing?!”
“That’s a Koose Koose,” I casually retort at the same time I shade a couple of feathers black on my drawing to match him.
“What’s a Koose Koose?!”
“Which type?” my playful poking precedes a small snigger and my stare shifting upwards to meet hers. “You gotta learn to be more specific, June Bug.”
The glare I’m twitched causes my beam to brighten to a point comparable to the sun.
Fuck, I don’t know how she does that without even trying.
But she does.
And not smiling around her doesn’t seem to be an option.
“This Koose Koose is a goose-”
“I know what a goose is,” she mumbles unhappily under her breath while folding her arms defiantly over the loose fitted black shirt she has tucked into her beige, wide-leg suit pants. “I just…the word…hid from me.”
“Like the word bathtub?”
My reference to an exchange we had two days ago – which was a moment I would’ve loved to have a more pornographic ending than it did – receives another narrowed gaze, although this one with a bit more mirth in it.
“The other couscous is a dish best served with stew.” Shoving my sunglasses up into my messy brown locks occurs prior to me asking. “At least in my experience. Feel free to tell me about yours.”
She gives her unpainted toenails a shameful glance to delay answering.
This is the shit I hate.
Her…refusal to wanna share anything personal with me when I’m so willing to share with her – something that is way off the goddamn canvas for me – is maddening. Most of the time, I just wanna hear what other people have to say. What’s happened to them. What inspires and moves them through life. I wanna hear their stories and breathe it into the different mediums I cross, yet when it comes to June, I want her to know those moments that have meant the most to me.
The ones I’d love to live over and over and over again.
Hell, even the ones that had me finally breakdown and pop a pill last night to stop me from screaming in my sleep.
I’ve never wanted anyone to have that information before her.
I actually still don’t want anyone to have that information but her.
Apollo have fucking mercy.
I can’t stay here much longer.
I can’t keep risking the possibility to let this bumbling beauty know more about me than anyone else has in years.
“Ever had it?” I gingerly question, summoning her brown stare to my blue.
Our eyes finally reuniting is accompanied by a quick headshake.
“Want to?”
“Um…let’s uh…slow our stroke with the whole dipping into the new food paint bucket for a bit, okay? My stomach still isn’t quite right after that Indian food debacle.”
“And by debacle you mean not listening to me when I told you Vindaloo was one of – if not the – spiciest types of curry out there?”
“You ate it!”
“My pallet has gotten much more action than yours.”
Redness unexpectedly creeps into her cheeks causing my cock to instantly stir.
Fucking hell, I wanna paint that color.
On a canvas.
On the walls.
On her.
I wanna do the little things that make it be seen and the big things that’ll make it pop.
I wanna explore every inch of its color spectrum.
See how light it can get.
How dark.
Fuck. Me. Do I wanna see that shade litter her skin next to the black and blues from all her accidental bruises as well as the ones I’ve put there from pinning her against the wall.
The floor.
The headboard.
Dropping the sketchpad in my possession onto my lap is done to deter the rising situation in my light tan, loose-fitted linen pants. “Sorry your stomach is still upset, June Bug. We can just do summer salads or something equally light tonight.”
“Is it weird I…liked the food even though it didn’t settle well?
“Not really.”
“Is it weird I…wanna try it again when I think I can stomach it – lame pun intended.”
“Nah, a lot of people need more than one taste of something to know whether or not they like it or hate it.”
Although, I know if I ever simply get one taste of June Bailey, I’m gonna be begging for every last drop.
“Is it weird I have a love, hate relationship with you calling me June Bug?”
“Let me know if the bucket of hate ever outweighs the love and I’ll stop.”