Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
There’s one little thing that’s holding me back—my fucking conscience.
I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. Sitting around and waiting is doing nothing to calm my shit. My mind won’t stop. Too many scenarios are playing through my head, and every single one of them is out of my control. I stand up from the couch, my feet move, and now I’m pacing. “Fuck’s sake, man, get ahold of yourself.”
My phone takes that moment to chirp, and I’m grabbling with the couch, yanking cushions, a blanket, and any wrong damn thing in my haste to climb the fucking thing. All of this could have been avoided had I not taken up walking the length of the house in order to keep from checking my phone every twenty seconds. And yes, I fucking counted. After a few moments of wrestling with everything that seems to get in my way, I finally wrap my hands around the black metal device. My muscles unclench, my jaw is no longer locked tight, and my heartrate is slowing down to a normal rhythm.
Foxy: I’m so sorry, Jude. My shift ran late, and I’m just now walking to my car. I’ll be on in thirty minutes. I have to hop in the shower before I do anything else.
Mother fuck. There’s a reason Veronica, or Ronnie, as she goes by, is in my phone as Foxy. The woman is gorgeous, bite your fist, balls drawing tight, and has you dropping to your knees to pay homage to every surface of her body. She’s not the only one who needs a shower. I look from my phone down to my pants. A noticeable bulge presses against the zipper, causing my dick to only get harder. The sensation is enough to have my knees locking. My spine starts to tingle, and my eyes close as I think about having her naked and dripping wet.
Me: Want help?
I delete the two words. We’re not there yet. While we talk on the phone daily, play online just as much, and send each other texts back and forth throughout the day, I’m pretty sure she’d kick me in the nuts for offering to help her shower the first time we meet.
Me: Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready.
And because I have not one single ounce of grace, I follow it up with something that gets my point across while not being a total douchebag.
Me: Also, can’t lie. The mental image you just gave me might just kill me. I’ll try to survive until you’re on. Maybe.
I wait to see what how Ronnie will respond. The bubbles appear then disappear. I’m about ready to give up when she finally responds. The first time we started really talking, when she finally turned her mic on, I did my own kind of reconnaissance. I pulled up every damn picture I could find, then, as the days went by, we exchanged numbers, and she sent me a couple of pictures, mainly of her making a funny face and very rarely with her completely in the frame.
This time, it’s a different picture entirely, one I’m not prepared for, and it has me salivating. Ronnie is fully in the image, with not a single obstruction, nothing to hide her beautiful fucking body. I’m definitely going to need a shower myself.
She’s standing outside of a building. From my digging, I can tell it’s her place of employment. A dual business of sorts—on one side, there’s a bar, and on the other a tattoo shop. I’ve yet to be any more of a stalker or creeper by doing a drive-by, plus I’ve got my own tattoo artist, and making an appearance there could raise some questions.
Ronnie’s long dark hair is down, pulled over one shoulder, and loose with tousled waves. Her blue eyes are bright and vivid, surrounded by dark eyelashes similar to the color of her hair. Full lips are painted a deep red, a slight flush coats her cheeks, and I’m locked on every inch of her image. I lick my lips. Her tan complexion is on display, patches of skin here and there, making Ronnie that much more alluring.
She’s in a black cropped tank top that has a band logo on the front and is wearing black fish nets beneath her jeans. The light wash is ripped on her upper thigh on one leg and similar on the other side, except at her knee. A black choker-style necklace is wrapped around her delicate neck, and a stack of bracelets adorns her wrist that isn’t holding the phone out in front of her. That’s not even getting into the tattoos she has here and there, tattoos I’d give my left arm to drag my tongue across. The only part of Ronnie I’m missing is getting a view from behind, and damn, do I want that visual more than anything.