Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
One more hard thrust and she came, moaning my name, pussy strangling my dick.
I pulled out, pushed onto my knees, and shoved up her T-shirt before I came on her chest. “At the end of the day, Lola…” I smeared it up her neck, wrapping my hand around her throat. “No matter who else fucks you. No matter how much I hate you. You’ll always be mine.”
Then I got up and went to my room, leaving her half-naked and covered in my come at the bottom of the stairs.
Chapter 27
LOLA
Monday morning, I sat in Miss Smith’s class, trying to focus on her lesson instead of the ache Hendrix had left between my legs.
A few minutes into the explanation about kamikaze sperm, a note landed on my desk.
I opened it.
Like I said, every time you fuck that Barrington piece of shit, I’ll use my kamikaze sperm and fuck him right out of you.
The possessive little creature in me preened, and that was never a good thing. I’d loved every second of his brutality last night. Even if he had fucked another girl right before…although no one was there when I came in. At one-thirty in the morning. With no sign of the party he’d supposedly had, no hint of cheap perfume, no hickies on his tattooed neck. But he sure as hell wanted me to think he’d been with someone else, to be as jealous as him.
I picked up my pen and scribbled out: Smith just said kamikaze sperm is a theory. You can’t fuck another guy out of me.
I knew it was a red rag to a bull, but I wanted the kind of possessive rage that got me fucked on the floor like the cheap whore I clearly was to him now.
I tossed the note over my shoulder.
Smith huffed from the front of the class before she marched down the aisle, right past me, to Hendrix’s seat. Paper crinkled. “Lord Jesus…” She took a slow step back, her accusing gaze landing on me. “I’m gonna put your name down on my prayer request sheet at church because you need to be hitting your knees at night for something other than this mess.” She shook the note in my face before going back to the white board. “Kamikaze sperm… With Mr. Nasty.”
Hendrix leaned over my shoulder, his hot breath hitting the shell of my ear. “I can fuck whatever I want out of you. In to you...”
I ignored him because the only response I had was denial. And truthfully, I couldn’t pretend I wouldn’t find myself moaning on Hendrix’s dick again. He was crack, and I couldn’t resist shooting up with his toxic shit.
Three days later and I was rabid for a hit.
I’d watched a string of girls rotate places at his and Wolf’s lunch table all week. Not that it was anything new, but Hendrix and me ignoring each other–truly ignoring each other—was. The only reaction I’d gotten from him was earlier, when Chad had pulled into Dayton to get me for Gracie’s dance recital and Hendrix’s infuriated gaze tracked the truck like he wanted to set it on fire. I knew he thought I was dating Chad, and though I probably should have denied it, Hendrix’s wild imagination wasn’t my problem. I wanted it to be, though.
In a way that ended with me breathless and covered in his come. Again.
* * *
After the recital, Chad had dropped me off at home.
As expected, the TV was on, but instead of the familiar sound of the PlayStation, the chilling screams from a horror flick echoed through the house.
I rounded the doorframe. Hendrix wasn’t in his usual spot on the couch, but his phone was on the coffee table, a text message thread lit up on the screen.
My gaze darted to the kitchen doorway, and when the faucet cut on, I leaned over the table.
Close enough that I could read every stomach-churning word on the screen.
* * *
205-836-1538: Do you want to hang out after our group project tomorrow?
* * *
Hendrix: Depends. What the fuck does HANG OUT mean?
* * *
205-836-1538: Whatever you want it to…
* * *
Hendrix: How good are you with your mouth?
* * *
205-836-1538: Why don’t you let me show you?
* * *
It was a lit match to a tinder pile. The straw that broke the camel’s back. I knew he’d left it there on purpose, that he had wanted me to see it, but still…
I stormed up to my room, grabbing the magazine I’d taken from Smith’s desk a few days ago and flipping to a page with Jonny Depp and a sample of Dior Sauvage. I ripped that piece of paper out, telling myself that I couldn’t be with him and I had no right to be mad.
How good are you with your mouth? No, fuck him.