Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 32995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 165(@200wpm)___ 132(@250wpm)___ 110(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 165(@200wpm)___ 132(@250wpm)___ 110(@300wpm)
“Mhm,” is all Rupert says.
I giggle and let it happen. It’s actually soothing and relaxing. “I don’t think anyone’s washed my hair for me since I was a baby,” I comment dreamily.
“Oh yeah? Some rude lovers, you must have had,” he replies.
“You can say that again,” I snort. “Though, I think this is the first time I’ve showered with a guy.”
“Well, maybe it’s something you can get used to. If you like it, that is,” he purrs.
“So far, so good.”
The shower unfolds just like that. We wash one another’s hair. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach the top of his head, and he chuckles through it. When it comes to washing our bodies, we take the liberty of washing ourselves, though I get his back, and he gets mine. It’s so… intimate. Like something a couple would do routinely after years of being together— while also being new, and kind of sexy. I’m turned on, admittedly, just by watching the soap cover his slick body and then wash off gradually with the gentle flow of water. I attempt some modesty by not looking at his groin, though occasionally I can feel it brush against my hip and I know it’s erect.
He doesn’t touch me sexually though, and I don’t touch him like it either. I’m too fascinated by the sweetness of him. Rupert has a raw, sexual energy and yet he opts to wash my hair and sort of tend to me instead of trying to put the moves on me. By the time we are stepping out and drying off, I realize the obvious truth behind it all: He cares about my well-being and comfort above his own need for sex.
How have I landed myself in such a strange, yet intoxicating, situation with a literal perfect stranger?
Chapter Eight
Rupert
I can’t help but stare as Luce slides on my pajamas. They fit her so perfectly. Snug around the thighs, a bit at the stomach, and her chest is large enough to need a top button undone. Never have I seen someone look so equal parts adorable and sexy all at the same time. I yearn to pull them off of her, but I have respect for her and don’t want her to feel used. If things go in that direction, they need to happen a little more organically.
We put her clothes in the wash before heading into the kitchen. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask as I grab my phone and start to scroll to the delivery apps.
“I’m not sure,” she admits. “Mind if I grab a drink?”
“Go ahead,” I say, nodding toward the fridge. “There’s waters, sparkling waters, beers, and white wine in there. Whatever you like, you’re welcome to.”
“Oh, a beer sounds great,” Luce sighs. I hear the fridge door open as I click on an app and prepare to read off options. However, her snorting cuts me off. “You want to order out when your fridge looks like this?”
I peer about to see her gesturing to the shelves of fresh meat, leafy green herbs, and an assortment of produce, and staple pantry ingredients. It is rather aesthetically pleasing, though I have my housekeeper do my shopping, and she’s the one who organizes the fridge. Shrugging, I explain, “I’m not really in the mood to cook.”
“I’ll cook,” she states as her eyes pan back to the fridge.
“I can’t ask you to cook. You’re my guest,” I frown.
“I didn’t realize when I said ‘I’ll cook’ that it was you doing some Jedi mind trick on me. I take back my offer,” she replies sarcastically and then looks back at me. “Look at me— you know I can cook. Let me give your poor, wilting parsley a proper send off.”
I chuckle and shake my head, completely taken aback by her humor. While I want to say something about her comment about being able to tell at a glance that she can cook, I decide against it. Clearly, she’s comfortable in her skin, and there’s nothing sexier than a woman who’s confident in who she is. Hell, from where I’m standing there’s nothing sexier than the curves almost bursting right out of my pajama set.
I put my phone down and nod at last. “Alright, fine. You can cook. I’m here to help any way I can.”
“Nuh uh. You already said you didn’t feel like it and I’m not going to have my meal taste like lack of motivation,” Luce huffs. “You just sit there and do what you’re best at: look pretty.”
Taking a seat on one of the bar stools, I watch with fascination as she gets to work. I study her as she takes inventory in just a minute, and then begins pulling out ingredients. Chicken, eggs, bacon, parsley, garlic, onion, arugula, flour, and a few seasonings. When Luce asks where things are, I tell her, and she pulls them out. In no time, I am watching her make pasta from scratch like it’s nothing.