PRIVATE ROOM NUMBER THREE by Jennifer Crowfoot

Author:Jennifer Crowfoot
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love, sexy, desire, lust, dom, australia, hospital, club, surprise, levi, ouch, hot aussie male, lucy candice

Part Three

Racing downstairs when I realise that the echoing chime I can hear is my mobile ringing, my heart stops, and then leaps into my throat, when my foot slips off of the edge of the step. Tumbling to my knees, I find myself going down the stairs in a fashion I’ve never considered before.

Rolling… head over arse.

With each rotation, my hands grab wildly at the bannister, the wall, the air; anything to stop my descent.

Unfortunately, all I do is tear a nail loose, bend my middle finger backwards and gather speed.

A rolling stone and all that shit.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Kerboonk. Kerboonk. Kerboonk.

Crying out, I close my eyes and pray that I don’t break my neck as my body jostles, bounces and rolls down the staircase like an overinflated basketball.

I whimper with every rotation of my body as my ribs, elbows and head impact with an awful smacking sound, on what should feel like soft carpet, but instead feels like chiselled rock.

By the time I finally hit and bounce off of the last step, my right knee has had enough. In protest at my unorthodox method of descent, it twists as it hits the edge.

Blazing white fireworks explode in my brain as I hear and feel something crack deep inside it. I scream, clutching at it with both hands as I skid across the tiled floor like an ice cube on glass.

The solid antique table that I use to keep mail, a flower vase and spare keys on top of, halts my slide — before the front door gets a look in — and as the side of my head smacks into one of the solid legs, the vase topples and crashes to the floor. The delicate porcelain explodes on contact, sending sharp shards and smelly flower-water spraying all over my face, while to add insult to injury, slimy stems slap me on the forehead.

Curling up, I lay on my side in a rapidly spreading puddle of reeking flower water. Half wailing and half panting through the pain, I sniffle as hot tears trickle across the bridge of my nose, over my cheek and into my hair and ear, all while bolts of white-hot agony continue to shoot up my leg.

Fighting back the urge to vomit, I grit my teeth and prop myself up on my elbow, looking down. Other than some pretty epic swelling, my knee looks fine. But judging by the atomic throbbing going on beneath my patella, it’s not nearly as fine as it appears.

On top of everything, my nose is running like a tap. Oh Jesus. Why me? More tears overflow, joining my streaming nose. In a technicolour haze of pain, annoyed and really, really hating today, I sniffle back hard, my nostrils flaring with the force.

It doesn’t help.

The frigging thing’s still dripping. Feeling like a total slob, but so not caring — I mean, who the fuck’s going to see me? I live on my own. No boyfriend. No pets. No nosy neighbours — I lift up my top, bow my head and wipe at my eyes, before blowing my streaming nose.

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