Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
I watch as my words have the desired effect, and Azalea starts grinding her teeth. I also watch as she pulls back her arm and hurls the pickle at me. It hits me in the forehead, between the eyes, with a soggy, vinegary splat. I get some residual splash in my eyes and have to blink against the sting. I rub my left eye with my hand.
“Ouch. That burns.” It’s half a deadpan and half the truth.
“So will this,” Azalea growls before she stalks over and raises her knee, trying to angle it right at my groin.
“Oh, hell no. That is not happening again. Bag me once; shame on me. Bag me twice…well, no. Just. No.”
She slams into me, but I block any and all access to my junk by angling away and giving her my knee only. I grasp her wrists, angling them above her head to subdue her since she goes for my eyes, her fingers like claws after I cock block her. Mmm hrmmm. I’m not exactly sure that’s how you use that saying, but whatever. I use her momentum to twist her against the wall, and I trap her there with my chest and shoulder, keeping my lower half well away from her devious knees and feet.
“Whoa there,” I growl. “Let’s leave the poor guys out of this. My balls haven’t done anything to you.”
“Unfortunately, the oaf they’re attached to has,” she growls back.
We both freeze when her chest heaves, and we realize, at the same time, that my hand is splayed there, over her collarbones, holding her lightly against the wall while my other hand holds both her wrists in place above her head. I watch as her breasts rise and fall under her silky white blouse. And then, even though I can see the lace of her bra peeking through the white camisole, it must not have much padding, and my god, I can barely stand to think about that without my dick giving a major, pulsing high five when I notice that her nipples are pebbling. Have pebbled? At any rate, they’re there, piercing through the thin fabric the same way Azalea’s eyes are piercing through me. She’s angry. Hell, yes, she’s crazy pissed off, but all that anger might also be turning into arousal.
“I’ll let you go,” I tell her softly while trying to look at her face and not at the action going on near my hand. My palm burns, knowing that just a sweep lower and her breasts would be heaving against it, those hard, beaded nipples against my fingertips. “If you promise not to kick me in the junk again.”
“Oh sure,” she snaps. “Sure you will. You probably like this. You probably get off on it. Being all-powerful, holding me against the wall because you’re bigger, handsome as the devil, and this is your domain. Hell. I’m talking about you making my life hell, in case you don’t realize that I’m trying not to compliment you.”
My lips quirk up in a grin that I’m unable to suppress. “Believe me. I got the memo.”
“And I would…I would never find you attractive, even though you are. It’s your…your ego wrecks that.”
“Yes, clearly. Even if it’s coming from a place of extreme awkwardness.”
“Awkward, my foot. You’re an ass!”
“The assiest.”
“That’s not even a word.”
“Actually, I think it is. It means aggravating and irritating.”
“That would be correct then, Mr. Walking Dictionary. Congrats.”
“Thank you.”
She gulps so thickly that I can almost feel the reverberations of her swallow echo in my fingertips. “To be clear, I wish that none of this had ever happened. That I’d never met you.”
“I know.”
“And our fathers were horrible assholes for doing this.”
“Yes.”
“And so are you.”
“I also know that.”
“And…and your brothers wouldn’t have had to be all nice and buy me clothes and stuff if none of this was really happening.”
“You’re right.”
“You might make a mean sandwich, be good at hacking, and I might even feel a little bit sorry for you and guilty that you lived such a horrible first half of your life, but it doesn’t mean I enjoyed that kiss last night or that I’m even thinking about it now.”
“No, obviously not.”
“I’m not…not fighting against arousal right now. I’m only breathing hard because I’m so mad. Because I can’t stand you. And because you have pickle breath.”
“Undoubtedly so.”
“You faked being drugged just to see what I’d do, didn’t you?”
“I have to say, I did.”
“You knew all along.”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“You are the most infuriating man-child that I’ve ever met, and you hardly even say a thing.”
“Very true. I’m not very sociable. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of practice.”
“You made your own bed. I don’t feel sorry for you one bit,” she rasps, her breath growing more erratic, her voice huskier and lower by the second.
My body responds to that, and I’d like to press myself against her so I can feel every one of her soft curves slammed up against me, but that’s a hard and absolute no, so I keep myself angled away. She’s probably just trying to sucker me in so she can bag me in the junk again.