Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
It sent shivers through my core, almost hitting that G-spot. The mechanical vibrations built a predictable path to glory, as long as I held on to the vision of Linc’s lovemaking. It was his cock inside me, not whoever this imaginary Karl was. He was stroking my interior walls, caressing my heart and soul. It was Linc and not technology sending me over the edge, crashing down from the heights of ecstasy to the calm waters below.
I withdrew the sex toy, feeling at once satisfied and empty. It had been fun, but the exercise had only fostered the need within me. It wasn’t enough to fantasize and touch myself.
I wouldn’t rest until I had the real Linc in my bed.
15
LINCOLN
Iworked every shift I could. Porter didn’t want to give me overtime, and I couldn’t blame him. Despite the fact that the lumberyard employed almost twenty people, it wasn’t rich. Most of us were earning more than minimum wage, and there just wasn’t anything in the budget for overtime. It was a pity because if I had my choice, I would be working every waking minute.
When I wasn’t at work, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted to pursue my relationship with Aly, but I didn’t feel like I was on solid ground. Yes, there had been that exciting make-out session in the car, but she could just as easily have driven to my house or her house as I had suggested. That she chose a public location where we couldn’t consummate the act told me that she wasn’t ready to go all the way.
That left me with nothing to do on Sunday. I decided to take Mrs. Washington up on her offer of companionship and went upstairs to see if she was around. She made me a big breakfast of pancakes and bacon while I sat and chatted. It was weird to enjoy idle conversation, but she had been so nice opening her home to me, and I was actually getting comfortable around people again.
“Are they treating you well at the lumberyard?” she asked as the bacon sizzled in the pan.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Not working you too hard, I hope.”
“I wish I could work harder,” I confessed. “I don’t know what to do with myself on days off.”
“You could go see a movie,” she suggested, pulling the bacon off the pan and onto a plate.
I shook my head.
“You could go to the library.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” I answered, anticipating the meal as she slid it down in front of me. “Are you going to eat?”
“Goodness.” She straightened her dress, taking a seat across from me. “That’s more food than I could finish in one sitting.”
“Just have a pancake,” I urged her.
“Well, maybe just one,” she agreed, standing back up to fetch a plate.
I transferred one golden disk to her empty plate, then covered the rest with syrup. “I got a medal for distinguished service.” I hadn’t told anyone, and I didn’t know why I told Mrs. Washington.
“That’s great!” She leaned across the table to pat my hand. “Well deserved.”
“Thanks.” I grinned and dug into my feast. Maybe it was because she was acting like a mother to me. I had never had a functioning mother, and it felt good. I wanted her to be proud of me, even though my logical half told me it didn’t matter.
I was still carrying the damned medal around in my back pocket, unwilling to give it up. It was weird. I had convinced myself that the trinket was meaningless, a way for the government to get out of paying cash. Yet, at the same time, it was an acknowledgement of everything I had achieved, all the friends I had lost, and the injury I had suffered. So, I kept it. “Do you want to see?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
I pulled it out and set it on the table. She wiped her hands clean on a napkin before picking the case up. Opening it, she acted impressed, marveling over the eagle and the striped ribbon.
“Will you wear it?” she asked.
I shrugged. “What occasion would I have to wear it?”
“I know.” She shut the case and handed it back. “You could have it framed.”
I imagined a single framed medal in one of those shadow boxes that old Army veterans displayed in their man caves. I would need a wood-paneled den with hunting trophies mounted above me. I would need a bank account commensurate with my station in life and a son or grandson to hand the award down to. That all seemed too pretentious. I was just going to carry it around until I got tired of it, then maybe store it in a drawer. It seemed a sad fate for something designed for display, but I couldn’t summon the energy to ask people to care.
“We’ll see,” I told Mrs. Washington.