Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
At first, the idea of calling my dad is appealing. He would never pull anything like this again once Dad found out about it. But at the same time, it would mean getting him in trouble and also getting myself into deep shit. I can’t forget that part. That’s something he’s always going to be able to use against me. Everything he does results from me going against his orders, meaning Dad’s orders. I’m always going to be stuck. And it’s not like I can make up a reason for him to spank me, either.
If Dad found out Zeke ever so much as laid a hand on me, he could say goodbye to his dick. I have no doubt about that. The one thing Dad wants more than anything else is for me to be pure, untouched. It’s gross and intrusive, but I guess he’s old-fashioned like that.
When my phone buzzes, it snaps me back into reality. Shit, everybody is waiting for me at Dean’s. The text is from Posey. Where are you? Do you need campus police?
It’s almost enough to make me smile. My dad should take a hint from her: she cares about people she likes, but she doesn’t have to be up their ass every second of the day. Though that doesn’t mean she won’t offer to call for help when somebody is twenty minutes late, which is where I am right now according to the time on my phone.
Sorry, can’t make it out. But I’m okay. Have fun, and I’ll talk to you later. That will have to be enough for now. I leave the phone on my dresser, dragging my feet across the room. I can’t even be all that disappointed about not getting to go out. Not when I don’t know how I’m ever going to face Zeke after this.
He had to know. When I shivered, he had to have felt it. It wasn’t a shiver of disgust or revulsion or anything like that. I wish it was; that would make everything so much easier. No, that was definitely me shivering with pleasure.
I almost wanted more. I wanted to feel his hand on my bare skin, no pants in the way.
I’m never going to get him out of my system, am I? He’s always going to be there, tormenting me. Reminding me of that awful night and how embarrassing it was when he didn’t want me. Reminding me he still doesn’t want me but making me want him more all the time—God, I do, and I hate myself for it. Why couldn’t it be anybody but him?
I undress slowly, taking my time to remove my jeans. I can’t help but turn on the lamp on my dresser before turning around to see what he did. There aren’t any handprints—I don’t know if I’m disappointed or not—but my entire ass is red, and it stings to the touch. But in a good way. Just when I thought I understood my body and the way my brain works, something like this had to happen. What does it even mean? Is it supposed to feel good?
A knock on my door scares me enough that I jump and fumble for my jeans like I got caught doing something bad. “What?” I manage.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I think you’ve said enough already.”
“I want to talk for real. Seriously.” He sounds serious, too. He also hasn’t apologized. I don’t know if I’d be wasting my time hoping for an apology, though. Something tells me I would be. Even if he’s sorry, he’s never going to admit it. That much, I already understand about him.
“Give me a second. I’m getting changed.” I hurry through pulling on a T-shirt and sweats before unlocking the bedroom door. I don’t open it for him, though, sitting on the foot of my bed instead. It still hurts a little, but not too much. If anything, the ache is nice. I hope he never finds out because I would die of embarrassment.
He opens the door slowly, hanging his head a little. “Hey.” I notice he’s wearing different clothes now—he was still dressed when he caught up with me, and it occurs to me he never got ready for bed. He was waiting for me to sneak out. I have to take a deep breath and calm myself down enough not to start a fight. If I’m easy to read, that’s nobody’s fault but my own.
“Hey.”
“That might have gotten out of hand.” He looks at the floor, the wall, the dresser, my desk. Not at me, though. Running a hand over the back of his neck—the hand he used on me—he grunts softly. “I lost control.”
“I know.”
Then he does something that takes me by surprise. Instead of growling or acting all macho or whatever, he lets out a soft sigh. The kind of sigh that makes his shoulders slump and his body sort of sag. “We can’t keep going on like this.” He sounds like himself, but different. Like his whole big, badass image is just that. An image. Something he puts on like he’d put on his leather jacket.