Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
‘What the actual fuck, Ava?’
‘I want a boob job,’ she repeats quietly.
‘Forget it.’
‘Jesse . . .’
‘No way.’ I push myself up to my knees, my gaze automatically falling to her boobs. The boobs I love. The boobs that give me hours of pleasure. Soft boobs. Natural boobs. My fucking boobs. I inwardly moan at the thought of someone taking a knife to them. ‘Hell will freeze over,’ I tell her. ‘You can get that idea right out of your head.’
She follows my line of sight to her breasts and cups them. For once, watching Ava touch herself does nothing for my libido. What the hell is she thinking? ‘They need an injection of life,’ she muses, her chin on her chest as she inspects each one. ‘They’re going south.’
‘The only thing that just went south is my dick.’ A cold shower couldn’t have been as effective. ‘Like I said, not while I’m alive and breathing. Not even when I’m dead. I’ll find a way to come back to life so I can trample your arse. Forget it, Ava. They’re mine and I like them just the way they are.’
‘You really are being unreasonable,’ she mutters as I laugh my way into the bathroom and flip on the shower. ‘And they’re actually my boobs, not yours.’
That statement pulls me back to the door. She’s staring at me defiantly. She knows she’s not going to win this one but will try anyway, and piss me off even more in the fucking process. ‘How long has it been since I found you?’ I ask.
‘Twelve years,’ she spits back matter-of-factly, obviously holding back her eye-roll.
‘Then discussions over ownership are out of fucking date. We cleared up that small detail within weeks of knowing each other.’
‘Or so you told me.’ Her nostrils flare. ‘And year thirteen might be your unlucky year, Ward.’
I jump back a little, startled. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means,’ she snipes, sitting up on the bed and folding her arms over her chest, ‘that year thirteen might be the year I leave you.’
I gasp, horrified, despite the fact that her fingers go straight to her hair, playing with the strands. She’s lying. It doesn’t matter. She still has the nerve to say it. ‘Take that back right now.’
‘No.’
‘Ava.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Mouth!’ I steam forward, outraged, ready to put her back in her place. She tries to escape. She could have a mile head start and I’d catch her. Always will. She scrambles across the bed, aware that she’s pushed me too far, and screams when I catch her ankle, dragging her back towards me. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I ask, flipping her over and straddling her stomach, arms pinned safely above her head with one hand.
‘Get off me!’
I do the only thing there is to do. I look down at the sensitive spot by her hip, grinning evilly.
She stills. ‘Jesse, no.’
I ignore her and go in for the kill, sinking my fingers into her tickle spot and going to town, digging, squeezing, and generally making it as unbearable as possible.
‘Oh my God.’ She sucks in air and starts going loopy beneath me, bucking and screaming her displeasure. ‘No! I’ll . . . pee . . .’ She laughs uncontrollably, then shouts in vexation, ‘I’m going to wee myself!’
‘Take it back now,’ I warn, not letting up. A bit of pee between husband and wife is no skin off my nose.
‘I take it back!’
‘Are you leaving me, wife?’ I ask, giving her an extra-brutal squeeze.
‘Never!’ She gasps for breath, her body arching violently.
‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’ I release her and she jumps up off the bed, holding herself between her legs. ‘Knock yourself out, lady.’
She pelts to the bathroom. ‘You bastard!’ The door slams and I chuckle to myself, following behind, though less speedily than Ava. I walk in to find her sitting on the loo. She scowls at me. I grin.
Stepping into the shower, I start belting out a bit of Justin Timberlake, squeezing some gel onto the sponge. ‘How was your day, dear?’ I ask.
‘Fine.’ Grabbing her toothbrush, she slaps on some paste and starts scrubbing. ‘’ought . . . orrow . . . ate . . . am . . . ryone . . . irthday.’
I look at her incredulously through the glass. ‘Wanna run that by me again?’
She spits out the paste. ‘On Saturday, everyone is coming around for your birthday barbecue.’
‘I’m not having a birthday barbecue,’ I say with utter finality, going back to scrubbing down. ‘We’ve discussed this.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Ava. I’m not celebrat . . .’ I drift off, realising that I was about to break my own rule: no mentioning the dreaded number.
‘Celebrating the fact that you’re turning fifty?’ She cocks her head at me, her toothbrush going back into her mouth.