Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Maybe I can’t sleep right now because I didn’t do enough to tire myself out.
Maybe I’ve done nothing to excise the butt images from my mind, and I’m haunted. Or maybe I’m still a broken series of short-circuiting hormones.
It could be that I’m lying here wide awake because I can’t turn my mind off either. I saw those dark circles under Rick’s eyes. I saw how tired he looked with every fiber of his being. I know he’s not going to sleep tonight. Where would he? I doubt he even has a bed left. One of the crews disappeared upstairs with him and came down with a split box spring, a mattress, and a whole bunch of pieces and parts. I don’t know if there’s another bed in the house. The couch is gone. The chairs too. Other than his office furniture, I’m not sure there’s much left. I didn’t want to go poking around in rooms that weren’t meant for snooping.
I know there’s one bed left in the house.
This one.
I’ve been riding that train of thought for the past few hours as I tossed and turned, and things have gone from being a regular temperature to just about blistering hot in here.
Cold showers never work for me, even in the summer. I could be boiling yet I still can’t bring myself to get under a frigid spray. What I need is a glass of water to try and put out this fire. A glass of what the fuck am I even thinking? I need to stop thinking about it, feeling it, and wanting it.
I can go right from my room to the top of the stairs since it’s the first one down a hallway that only goes in one direction. The other direction is the bathroom, but I doubt there’s a glass for water in there. I’m going to have to go down to the kitchen, and I can do that without disturbing Rick.
I think he’s in his office. I heard the desk chair creak an hour ago. Maybe that’s where he sleeps. Or doesn’t sleep. He could be one of those people who’s been trained to literally sleep with their eyes open. Maybe he just goes into catatonic states, and that’s how he’s survived without sleeping for days already. I’ve been here long enough that he should look well-rested, yet he doesn’t. I’m not sure if not sleeping can be termed as a pace, but if so, I’m not sure he can keep up the pace. Not even downing copious amounts of coffee will help, and I was serious when I told him it isn’t healthy. Just because he doesn’t require much sleep doesn’t mean he doesn’t need any.
I should leave well enough alone. I check the stairs. Rick isn’t hanging off of them or over them, so that means he’s probably okay. A crew came today—part of the morning move-out people—and wrenched the offensive painting out of the wall using a proper ladder with two guys supporting it at the bottom. I’ve never seen anchors like that. No wonder Rick couldn’t get it out by himself. The house is starting to look less like a home—or less like a super minimalistic home—and more like a shell. It looks like Rick is moving out. I know he’d like to do that. I doubt he’ll buy a bunch of new furniture that’s more to his taste and stuff it in here when he doesn’t want to be here in the first place. Honestly, I have no idea what he’s going to do.
Take care of him. He’ll need it. He’ll act like he won’t, but he does.
My reasons for that aren’t purely honorable. I’m still on fire. My ovaries sit up and do a happy dance when I change directions and walk back up those stairs. My nipples join in, tangoing in time to the steps I take back past my room and past a closed door to the one that’s only partially shut. Rick’s office.
It would be a darned relief if Rick weren’t there. Or at least, I tell myself it would be. I would have time to take a breather and talk myself down. Go back to my room, forgo the water, and screw myself. What I need is a good orgasm. The trouble is, I’ve never been very good at it—at giving them to myself. I know it’s mostly mental, but I’ve always felt so pathetic that I’m just not that into pleasing myself because it’s healthy and good, and it’s right to be able to know your own body. It’s not that I haven’t tried. I mean, I haven’t invested heavily in toys or tried anything kinky. I don’t think it’s wrong. I just haven’t. I’ve tried pretty much every trick I can think of with my own hand and once with the detachable showerhead in my apartment back in Atlanta, but nope. Just no. It doesn’t work.