Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
She barely registers the goop gliding down the front of her visor when I hit her with a second grenade. This one, I mush into the face glaring at me in shock.
“You… you… you…” When she spots the bucket of ‘grenades’ at the side of us, she finally completes her sentence. “You’re dead.”
After a second paintball grenade to her head, I scoop up another three before bolting for shelter under a barricade in the middle of the course.
McKayla is hot on my tail two seconds later, her aim nowhere near as precise since she has to throw her weapons instead of aiming them.
“Who is the probie now?”
I’ll need to probe paint out of my ass when she pegs me right in the butthole. Paint sloshes through the thin material that’s meant to protect us, slowing down my sprint so suffice it to say, McKayla catches me on the way down.
She digs her sock-covered shoe into the back of my knee, doubling my fall before climbing onto my back like a monkey. Then she splats an overfilled balloon onto my head like an egg.
When the paint bouncing off my helmet see her covered in as much goop as me, I howl like a fucking wolf before continuing with my earlier dramatics. Except this time, I take McKayla down with me.
“Death by sacrifice. The only real way to go,” I groan out dramatically while flopping onto my back so McKayla doesn’t cop the brunt of our fall.
She lands on top of me, our difference in height undeniable when her knee brushes my groin during impact. It is a close call, but not scary enough for my body not to respond to her closeness.
She’s right here, lying on top of me, panting hard. Her cheeks are red, her body is slicked with sweat, and although my deviant head could be making up her scent, she smells exactly how you’d envision she’d smell if you’d just taken her to the brink of ecstasy.
When my cock twitches in response to my thoughts, McKayla’s eyes lock with mine through the murky streaks of paint careening down the front of her helmet. Our stare down doubles the output of her heart and has it beating so ruefully, I feel every throb of her pulse. It is as desperate as the throbs of my cock, a manic, uncontrolled pace that has me forgetting my woeful mood.
I’m hungover and remorseful, but feel like I am in the prime of my life.
And the knowledge has me acting like I’m not the worst man on the planet for McKayla.
It has me wanting to be the first in a long line of much better suitors.
“Einstein—”
McKayla must feel the same tension. Not even a second after I angle my head to the side to better align our lips, she lunges forward, smacking our helmets together so loudly, an attendant enters the field to make sure we’re okay.
I don’t buy his act. There are cameras propped up throughout the field. He’s here to make sure we don’t stain the props with more than Fluro paint, but McKayla can’t spot a fool a mile out—hence, her crush on Gabriel Fucking Sutton. “Yep. We’re great.” Her grimace is so soft, that if our bodies weren’t plastered together, I wouldn’t have noticed it. “Just out of ammo.”
Refusing to let our fun afternoon end on a low note, I mutter, “Says you,” before I snatch up another ‘grenade’ and mush it over her head.
She giggles at the attendant’s shocked face from being sprayed with the shrapnel of my detonation before she scoops up the entire basket of water balloons and chases me down.
When paint-filled balloons fly at me from all directions, I dive for cover.
Regretfully, this time, I don’t roll onto my back. I land on the straw-covered pallet face-first, and since I’m hard from imagining the many ways I could alter McKayla’s scent, my cock takes the brunt of my fall.
While rolling onto my back, I groan like I’m dying, my moans gargled through my balls now sitting in my throat.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” McKayla dumps her basket of ‘grenades’ onto the paint-splattered ground before dropping to her knees next to me. “Did you break something? Is your leg okay?”
I realize she knows the extent of my brother’s injury when she rips off her helmet before dropping her eyes to the skin just above my left knee—right at the spot where Trenton’s leg was amputated.
“My leg is fine.” My scrunched-up face softens when the humor of the situation dawns on me. “Well, kinda. My middle leg isn’t doing too good.”
I fall in love with McKayla’s innocence when she murmurs to herself, “Your middle leg?”
“Middle leg.” When I drop my eyes to my crotch, she follows the direction of my gaze.
My pain is forgotten when her cheeks turn the color of beets before she snaps her eyes back to my face. “You hurt your…. penis?”