Taut: The Ford Book
Page 25
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“Oh, do you play or something?”
“I can play, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t play regularly. No.” I take another bite and chew. She accepts the remote, flips through the guide, and then turns on a hockey game.
“I like hockey too, and I have a soft spot for the Stars. They are good enough for me.”
Ashleigh is not what I expected. At all. One minute she’s shy and blushing, the next she’s confident and strong. I’m not sure which is the real her. “I’ll watch, but only out of pity. We’re kicking their asses this year.”
The baby starts coughing on the crap Ashleigh is still absently spooning into her mouth and then it all becomes too much and the cough turns into a full-fledged wail. Ashleigh takes her out of her carrier and hugs her to her chest, patting her firmly on the back and telling her sweet things in her ear. Then she lifts up her shirt and slips the baby right up to her breast.
I don’t know what it is, but this baby-feeding shit almost… turns me on. She’s not flaunting her tits at me, she’s just barely lifting her shirt so the baby can get access, but f**k. It’s provocative for some reason.
“Sorry for dirtying up all your t-shirts. Mine are too small to do this,” she says as she leans her head back against the couch and closes her eyes. Like breastfeeding exhausts her.
“Take what you need, I don’t mind.”
“That’s weird, you know.” Her eyes are still closed.
“What’s weird?”
“That you’re so easy-going about certain things and yet so uptight about others.”
I grunt out a laugh. “I’m gonna need examples.”
“You pay for things like money means nothing. You take care of the car and let me sit in that hotel office, and then come to pick me up and bring me here. You let me practically take over your house, you hand over the remote. I think you’re easy-going about these things because they’re outside of you. But then you seem to be obsessively controlling about anything that has to do with the inside of you. And then there’s that whole no-touching thing. You almost freaked out about it back when I was putting the baby in the van at the hotel.”
I actually huff at her assessment. Who the hell is she? “You don’t know me well enough to even form those opinions.”
“So you’re saying I’m wrong?” She doesn’t open her eyes. In fact, she looks like she’s about to go to sleep. That’s how slow and even her breathing is.
“I’m not saying anything. You just don’t know me.”
She stays silent, just tilts her head to the side so she’s not facing me. Her neck stretches, exposing her throat.
I have a thing for throats. Maybe some guys like tits and pu**y. I like tits and pu**y. But throats. Fuck. That shit turns me on. I imagine my hand sliding up to her throat, palming it gently. I do not squeeze them. But I like to apply a little pressure to make the girl come.
I’ve never had a pet complain about the throat thing. Not that they’re allowed to complain per the rules. But if it freaks them out, they’d probably say so on their way out when they’re busy calling me an emotionless freak. And they never do. They all like it. It’s like an orgasm button when used properly and I’ve perfected the technique.
Ashleigh becomes still and begins to breathe deeply. “Does it make you tired, Ashleigh?” I’m not sure why I ask, it’s just weird how she changes when the baby is nursing.
“Yes, you make me tired,” she says softly.
“No,” I laugh. “Breastfeeding.”
“Oh.” She turns her head back to me, opens her eyes, blinking a few times to shake off her drowsiness. “Yes, it’s like a drug. It relaxes me.”
“So it feels good?” My dirty mind is wandering.
Ashleigh smirks a little. But she doesn’t answer. I change the subject and point to her plate with my fork since she’s shut me down. “You’re not eating anything.”
She pulls herself fully awake and then stands up, removing the baby from her breast and adjusting her shirt. “Be right back.” She wanders down the hallway talking quietly to the baby, then disappears into my room.
Chapter Thirteen
I finish eating and then grab another beer from the fridge and sit back down on the couch. Her plate sits on the coffee table untouched and regardless of what she said, she does not come back. I try to concentrate on the hockey game but my mind is racing with curiosity and after about thirty minutes I get up and walk down the hall to the bedroom. I stop and listen at the closed door.
“Ashleigh?”
I knock. Nothing. I open the door and she’s sprawled out on the bed topless, the baby tucked up against her belly, their mouths open, their breath soft and even.
God, that is just sexy. She’s all sideways on the bed, not using a pillow, and her hair is spilling out on one side of her body like it was positioned that way for a photoshoot.
I watch her for a few seconds and then give myself the creeps and back away, closing the door behind me. It’s only about eight o’clock, and I just woke up a few hours ago, so I’m not even remotely tired. I wander back to the basement and glance over at the bottle of Scotch on my dad’s desk, and then, before I can stop myself, I’m sitting down in front of it.
I put the bottle away. I’m not in the mood to drink alone. But I do take a better look around the office. All the shelves are filled with books. Mostly medical books because my dad was a psychiatrist. He specialized in autistic spectrum disorders because I was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome when I was a kid.
“I can play, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t play regularly. No.” I take another bite and chew. She accepts the remote, flips through the guide, and then turns on a hockey game.
“I like hockey too, and I have a soft spot for the Stars. They are good enough for me.”
Ashleigh is not what I expected. At all. One minute she’s shy and blushing, the next she’s confident and strong. I’m not sure which is the real her. “I’ll watch, but only out of pity. We’re kicking their asses this year.”
The baby starts coughing on the crap Ashleigh is still absently spooning into her mouth and then it all becomes too much and the cough turns into a full-fledged wail. Ashleigh takes her out of her carrier and hugs her to her chest, patting her firmly on the back and telling her sweet things in her ear. Then she lifts up her shirt and slips the baby right up to her breast.
I don’t know what it is, but this baby-feeding shit almost… turns me on. She’s not flaunting her tits at me, she’s just barely lifting her shirt so the baby can get access, but f**k. It’s provocative for some reason.
“Sorry for dirtying up all your t-shirts. Mine are too small to do this,” she says as she leans her head back against the couch and closes her eyes. Like breastfeeding exhausts her.
“Take what you need, I don’t mind.”
“That’s weird, you know.” Her eyes are still closed.
“What’s weird?”
“That you’re so easy-going about certain things and yet so uptight about others.”
I grunt out a laugh. “I’m gonna need examples.”
“You pay for things like money means nothing. You take care of the car and let me sit in that hotel office, and then come to pick me up and bring me here. You let me practically take over your house, you hand over the remote. I think you’re easy-going about these things because they’re outside of you. But then you seem to be obsessively controlling about anything that has to do with the inside of you. And then there’s that whole no-touching thing. You almost freaked out about it back when I was putting the baby in the van at the hotel.”
I actually huff at her assessment. Who the hell is she? “You don’t know me well enough to even form those opinions.”
“So you’re saying I’m wrong?” She doesn’t open her eyes. In fact, she looks like she’s about to go to sleep. That’s how slow and even her breathing is.
“I’m not saying anything. You just don’t know me.”
She stays silent, just tilts her head to the side so she’s not facing me. Her neck stretches, exposing her throat.
I have a thing for throats. Maybe some guys like tits and pu**y. I like tits and pu**y. But throats. Fuck. That shit turns me on. I imagine my hand sliding up to her throat, palming it gently. I do not squeeze them. But I like to apply a little pressure to make the girl come.
I’ve never had a pet complain about the throat thing. Not that they’re allowed to complain per the rules. But if it freaks them out, they’d probably say so on their way out when they’re busy calling me an emotionless freak. And they never do. They all like it. It’s like an orgasm button when used properly and I’ve perfected the technique.
Ashleigh becomes still and begins to breathe deeply. “Does it make you tired, Ashleigh?” I’m not sure why I ask, it’s just weird how she changes when the baby is nursing.
“Yes, you make me tired,” she says softly.
“No,” I laugh. “Breastfeeding.”
“Oh.” She turns her head back to me, opens her eyes, blinking a few times to shake off her drowsiness. “Yes, it’s like a drug. It relaxes me.”
“So it feels good?” My dirty mind is wandering.
Ashleigh smirks a little. But she doesn’t answer. I change the subject and point to her plate with my fork since she’s shut me down. “You’re not eating anything.”
She pulls herself fully awake and then stands up, removing the baby from her breast and adjusting her shirt. “Be right back.” She wanders down the hallway talking quietly to the baby, then disappears into my room.
Chapter Thirteen
I finish eating and then grab another beer from the fridge and sit back down on the couch. Her plate sits on the coffee table untouched and regardless of what she said, she does not come back. I try to concentrate on the hockey game but my mind is racing with curiosity and after about thirty minutes I get up and walk down the hall to the bedroom. I stop and listen at the closed door.
“Ashleigh?”
I knock. Nothing. I open the door and she’s sprawled out on the bed topless, the baby tucked up against her belly, their mouths open, their breath soft and even.
God, that is just sexy. She’s all sideways on the bed, not using a pillow, and her hair is spilling out on one side of her body like it was positioned that way for a photoshoot.
I watch her for a few seconds and then give myself the creeps and back away, closing the door behind me. It’s only about eight o’clock, and I just woke up a few hours ago, so I’m not even remotely tired. I wander back to the basement and glance over at the bottle of Scotch on my dad’s desk, and then, before I can stop myself, I’m sitting down in front of it.
I put the bottle away. I’m not in the mood to drink alone. But I do take a better look around the office. All the shelves are filled with books. Mostly medical books because my dad was a psychiatrist. He specialized in autistic spectrum disorders because I was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome when I was a kid.
