Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I double-check my hospital schedule on my calendar app, and I’m free. I pencil in the seven thirty start time for the symphony, and then text Maddox back.
I’m in.
13
MADDOX
Going three days without Alissa was like being stabbed repeatedly with a dull knife. All I could think about was her. Seeing her. Touching her. Fucking her.
No news from Bill, either. He’s taking his sweet-ass time.
I opened the haberdashery Tuesday and Wednesday, operated under normal business hours.
Each night at closing, I remembered when Alissa and I hooked up here, when I fucked her on the counter. How she crouched behind the counter, completely naked, as a customer came in.
How she ran her fingers up my ankle while I was ringing him up. How I wished she could unbuckle my pants, pull them down, and blow me right then and there.
And I’m hard again.
Fuck.
I thought about texting her. Inviting her over for a drink.
But we all know what a drink would lead to.
And as much as I want nothing more than to get back inside her sweet pussy—and maybe even her ass—I wanted to wait until Thursday. Exercise a modicum of restraint so that the payoff would be all the more rewarding.
I’ve even abstained from jerking since Monday. I want to save it all for her.
It’s been hard—no pun intended—because every time I think of her, my dick swells quickly.
It’s not even sexual. I mean, I love the thought of her naked, but just thinking of her laugh, her voice, that accent. That turns me on just as much as the thought of her tits and ass.
Shit, have I got it bad.
Maybe the symphony tonight will give me the courage to express my feelings for her.
If there’s anything I’ve learned from the events of Sunday night, it’s that life is short. Any of us could meet our maker at any time.
We’ve got to make the most with whatever precious time we’re given.
My phone rings from behind the counter of the shop. I race toward it. It could be Alissa. Or news from Bill.
A fucking telemarketer text. Christ.
I block the number and look out the window.
It’s late morning, and a few streams of sunlight are peeking out through the clouds. I’ve had a couple customers so far, made a couple hundred dollars in sales.
Alissa and I have been texting when we can over the last few days, but she’s had late shifts and doesn’t have her phone while she’s working.
Good for the patients, bad for me.
I have a vintage grandfather clock in the shop that sits directly across from the cashier, so I can keep an eye on the time throughout the day.
Each move of the second hand seems to drag as if it’s being pulled through molasses.
Fuck.
After several endless hours of working in the shop, I’m finally standing outside of Symphony Center on Michigan Avenue. I decided to go full black tie this evening—my favorite tux, ornamented with a midnight-blue vest and bow tie and gold-plated studs and cufflinks. I opted out of a hat tonight—it’s not black-tie appropriate. I parked in the usual spot, the parking garage near Aces, and walked about fifteen minutes to the concert hall’s exterior. It’s a warm evening for the middle of February, so I skipped the overcoat.
It’s pretty unassuming. Three large domed windows at its front, and lines of regular-sized windows up and down the building. The only indication that this isn’t just another regular office building is the huge banner on its façade with a headshot of the long-haired conductor of the orchestra over the words “Symphony Center: Home of the World-Class Chicago Symphony Orchestra.”
My tickets are saved on my phone, so I don’t have to wait at will call with the over-sixty crowd. I texted Alissa once I got here, but the concert doesn’t begin until seven thirty, and it’s barely ten till the top of the hour.
And then I see her.
My God, she’s ravishing.
She’s in a silver gown lined with golden sequins that catch the light of the nearly full moon. It’s like she’s a moonbeam come to life.
The gown exposes her creamy shoulders, and her hair has been brushed out and styled into an elegant updo.
I’d love to strip her down and fuck her silly right in the middle of the busiest street in Chicago.
I walk to her, grab her hand, and kiss her on the cheek. “Alissa, you look beautiful tonight.”
She blushes. “Thanks. I decided to pull a Maddox Hathaway and skip the jacket. Make the right kind of entrance.”
“Did you drive here?”
She shakes her head. “I called an Uber. Cheaper than parking in this area.”
I chuckle. “Probably true. I would have done the same if I didn’t have the spot in the Aces garage.”
She frowns. “Should you still be parking there? If Rouge finds out what we know… And it’s not as if your car is exactly inconspicuous…”