Mother F*cker: A Spicy Reverse Age Gap Novella (One Handed Holidays) by G. Eilsel

Author:G. Eilsel [Eilsel, G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Pheonix

After a movie and two bowls of ice cream—because if he’s going to call me out, might as well play the part—I wait until a reasonable hour to announce I’m heading to bed for the night.

June sits across the room, our eyes constantly drawn together. It’s like my attention is compelled to her, rendering everything else invisible. Jacob seems blissfully unaware, but if I can’t rein in these turbulent emotions whenever she’s near, our secret may accidentally slip out.

Something tells me she wouldn’t be thrilled with me. Call it a gut instinct…

Or, you know… the fact that she said not to tell him.

There’s that.

On a normal day, patience is not a quality I excel at, so right now it’s awful. Abysmal. My mind races like a child on a sugar high as my legs bounce, waiting impatiently for Jacob to come upstairs for the night.

The realization of my idiocy struck me hard when I got upstairs, because I hadn’t bothered to get her cell number. Instead of sitting here being a weirdo, perched on the edge of the mattress in complete silence, that little piece of information could save me a lot of trouble.

I could just, I dunno… be a normal human being? Listen to music and wait for her to text me, rather than playing Sherlock Holmes and waiting for clues about Jacob’s bedtime.

After what seems like forever, but is actually only twenty-seven minutes, heavy feet clomp up the stairs and into the bathroom. For such a lithe, lean man, Jacob makes a ridiculous amount of noise. But for once, I’m thankful for it. Another short stretch of time goes by before I hear him walk to his bedroom and close the door with a click.

I give it a few more minutes for good measure before I tiptoe into the hallway, glancing in both directions like I’m crossing the street. The sliver underneath his door is dark, and all is quiet downstairs as I sneak down.

Did she forget about me?

I hesitate, but then remember her words from this afternoon about my insecurities, which she attributed to my youth. The point I need to prove, not only to her but also to myself, is that my age should be irrelevant.

How could I call myself a man if I didn’t have the gumption to walk through her door?

How could I call myself her man?

Shoulders squared with purpose and confidence that’s half feigned, I finish my trek to her bedroom. A gentle rap of my knuckles against the wood is met with her sweet voice, inviting me inside.

Her eyes roam my naked torso as I step in, every dip and muscle defined in the soft lamplight from her nightstand. My thin gray pants hang low on my hips—yes, on purpose—drawing her attention as she zeros in on the distinct dick print that’s outlined against the fabric.

Curled up on her bed, she looks absolutely stunning, her white-blonde hair glowing like a halo over her head. Her powder blue pajamas match her eyes, and her glasses sit perched on the end of her nose.

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