Page 92 of Trailer Trash

“Let me guess. The forest dude has wood.”

I swat his shoulder, shaking my head. “Don’t be a thirteen-year-old boy.”

He bursts into laughter. “I’m not the one reading fairy tales.”

“They’re for adult readers, thank you very much.” I fight for the book again, but I give up because touching his wet, hard body is doing something to me. I give up, lie back, and pout instead.

“Look at you all shy.” Then, to torture me further, he reads more. “Ragar’s velvet-wrapped steel…” His eyebrows rise. “Oh my God, this shit is good.”

And then—

Killian stretches out beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and continues reading.

I expect him to return the book after a page or two, but his jokes fade somewhere in the next paragraph. His voice is surprisingly pleasant. He doesn’t mock the characters again, and there’s no amusement or condescension in his delivery.

He tells the story so well that I can’t bring myself to take it back.

The tension leaves my body. I gaze at the darkening sky while Killian’s voice carries me into a fantasy land far away.

There’s another fantasy much closer, though.

In that one, the man reading to me beneath the stars is my boyfriend, not my patient.

I have a ton of schoolwork, but I’ll wait for Killian to fall asleep. Tonight is as normal as any other. We eat. Relax. He even reads to me from a new book. They started appearing on the coffee table a week ago.

“Since when did you get into romance books?”

“Gives us something to do. You like ’em, right?”

It’s become our post-dinner ritual — two chapters, narrated by Killian Easton. I love it.

Then, we watch something on television until he drifts asleep. Right now, a comedy is on.

There’s a joke about a pocket pussy. Now that I know what that is, I laugh hard, covering my mouth. Then I side-eye Killian and point at the television.

“Oh my goodness, Kill, you’re not the only sad, sad, desperate man who has to use one of those.”

Killian smirks, unashamed. “Mm-hm. I used my fleshlight yesterday.”

His words slip out so calmly, it’s a statement rather than a joke.

I swallow hard and blink. Anxious to break the tension, I fill the silence.

“Lucky you.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, uh, you’re lucky that you can get off with it. I can’t find a toy that does it for me.”

He smirks, causing my cheeks to burn hot. “You can’t get off with a toy?”

I shake my head, cringing.

“Are you asexual?”

“What? No!”

“It’s okay if you are.”