Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I can’t believe him. I can’t believe me. I shouldn’t care that he ran off. Just be thrilled that he’s played into my plan, and that I can now manipulate him even more.
Nate Vela will be back. I know he will. A whole party couldn’t distract him. He came for me. He came in me. He has no interest in whatever the outside world has to offer. From the moment he gets to his house every day, his life revolves around me.
The way he fucked me today? It proved one thing: this man needs me just as I need him.
Bad.
I need to step out of this mess before she assassinates me in a way a whole army of crazy Nazis tried and hadn’t succeeded. She’s going to ruin me. . .and I’m going to let her.
No. This stops here.
I don’t know this girl. I sure as fuck don’t need this girl. This girl, other than being the proud owner of a magic, sleek pussy I tend to respond to like it belongs to Aphrodite herself, is nothing to me. Nothing. She’ll pull the trigger on me without even batting an eye. She’ll fuck her way to freedom even if it were under the bodies of other men. Like Irv, or Stan Hathaway, or even fucking Camden Archer himself. She’ll stop at nothing to get her life back, and I can’t blame her.
But I can end this.
It’s her problem, not mine. Her tragedy, not mine. I’ve got my own fucking sad story to torture the ears of the average folk with. And that shit about a kid? I may be tanked, but I saw her face twitching when she answered.
Where are you hiding your spawn, little Pea, and who the fuck takes care of them?
Stumbling out of the basement, still thoroughly drunk, I take a wide step over a naked girl on the floor who is masturbating using an empty beer bottle in front of a cheering crowd. Jesus fuck, what kind of people does Irv hang out with these days?
I trudge straight to the stereo that’s whining “Hey” by The Pixies and pull the plug out of the outlet, holding the cord in my hand like a lasso, and point it at Irv, who is sprawled out on our sofa, getting a blow job from a woman in a mini-skirt, who looks to be pushing fifty and has a pink hair curler stuck to her skull.
“Everybody get the fuck out. Party’s over.”
Irv bolts up to his feet, flicking his lit joint onto the hole-filled carpet and staring me down like people expect him to. This shuts up everybody in the room instantly, which is unfortunate, because I have an angry, strong woman in my basement, who just got screwed six ways from Sunday and could very well be screaming her little lungs out.
“Calm your hot ass down, dawg. Who the fuck are you to decide?” he spits. I’m so mad at him for spilling my name in her ears, I’m about to cut his ugly ass face in front of all these people.
“I’m your motherfucking roommate, and when needed, I’ll also be your goddamn boss.” I take a step in his direction towering over him by at least six inches. “I never agreed to have people over. Fold this shit down before I strangle you alive. I already got a rope.” I squeeze the cord in my fist for emphasis and raise it to his eye level. “Now, dummy.”
Ten minutes later, the house is empty. It’s just me, him and Prescott downstairs. I walked out on her before even zipping up. Hell, my boxers are still damp with the cum I didn’t have time to wipe off. Trying to swallow my embarrassment down—I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, she was begging to be fucked and I gave her what she wanted—I throw my pillow over my face and squeeze it, half-wishing I’d suffocate myself to death.
Pea.
Thinking about her gets me so hard I feel my pulse pounding in my dick. I’m tenting like a thirteen-year-old Boy Scout just reeling her name in my head. Sex has fucking broken her, but tonight, there was no mistaking she felt whole, even if for a second.
What is it about this girl that’s so different?
She’s “street” without being a hooker.
Smart without being pretentious.
Knows her fucking literature, but also how to recognize bad-blended coke from miles away, all at the same time.
No. That’s not it. She’s got fight, and she wants to live. She’s actively chasing life, while I let mine slip between my fingers.
She’s life, and I’m death.
Prescott Burlington-Smyth is everything I want to be. A storm moving out of a shit situation at the speed of light, not looking back to spare a glance at the casualties of her actions.
How did her pussy feel? Good. Like I remember other pussies I’ve driven into feeling. Tight and warm like a fuzzy blanket, a shot of heroin to a shivering junkie. But nothing special. It doesn’t glitter. It doesn’t spew one hundred dollar bills and it won’t bring world peace. It doesn’t feel any different than the last nameless chick I fucked, all those years ago. And still, she’s the only woman to make me hard. The only fucking one.