Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Only it doesn’t have the intended effect. He scowls and mutters something under his breath. “You can stop doing this. I don’t feel like playing games today.”
“Come on,” I murmur with a smile. “Don’t be that way.”
“We need to talk about last night.” He pushes away from the desk, swiveling his chair to face me. There’s nothing about his body language or his pinched expression when he gets a full look at my near-nakedness to tell me he’s thinking anything sexy. That is not a good sign.
“Did I do something wrong?” Maybe if we get talking about it, he’ll soften up a little. Or harden up. Whatever keeps him in a good mood.
“What? No. That’s not what I meant.”
“I mean, I’m not super experienced. I guess you figured that out already.”
“I told you, that isn’t what I meant. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“What did you want to talk about, then?” I’m stalling. It’s pathetically obvious. But I know what’s coming, and I’m trying to avoid that.
“It can’t happen again. That was a one-time thing.”
Dammit. I can’t believe how disappointing it is to hear that. “But I thought it was good.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. “That’s not the problem. And you know it. Drop the innocent act, would you?”
“But it was good. Don’t pretend it wasn’t.”
“What is your point?”
“I just want to be sure I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, it’s sort of insulting. Hey, we fucked, and it’s never happening again. No explanation.”
“What do I need to explain? You have to know it was a bad idea. Just because it felt good doesn’t make it any less of a terrible idea.”
“I’m not going to tell anybody.”
He shoots me a filthy look. “You’d better fucking know you’re not going to tell anybody.”
“I won’t.” I fold my arms and possibly pout a little. “I didn’t tell anybody about the other times, did I?”
“We’re finished talking about this.” He turns back to his laptop. “You should go to your room and get dressed.”
I can’t do that unless I know something. “I’m really not moving to the dorms?”
“I already said you aren’t, didn’t I?” he fires back while typing something, his attention on his work. This probably isn’t the time to remind him he doesn’t always stick to his word.
I’ll put up with a lot, but I don’t stick around where I’m not wanted. I still have a little pride left, even if it doesn’t always look that way.
I drop the blankets and get out of bed, wasting no time leaving the room. It’s a little too cold in here for me, and I’m not wearing clothes. He doesn’t acknowledge me again.
The asshole. I should’ve known better. He used me and had fun, but now that his dick’s soft, I’m back to being garbage. Someone for him to push around, threaten, all that. He’s still pissed about the money. It’s his stupid pride. He thinks I lied about it, and he can’t bring himself to believe me.
I flop down on the bed, which is as messy as I left it earlier this morning when he pulled me out of it. I should be mad at him for that and for so many other things—and I am. But right now, disappointment is winning out.
My shoulder stings where he bit me. I give the area a gentle touch and wince. What’s wrong with me for liking it as much as I did? It was like I came even harder because of it. I think he did, too. It felt dirty and wrong and even hurt, but it was the same kind of hurt that’s now throbbing between my legs. The kind that also makes me smile to myself.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m lying here like I have a crush or something. He’s brutal and disgusting, and the only reason he matters is he’s sort of holding my life in his hands. He’ll come back around once he gets an itch in his pants again. It’s only a matter of time, especially when I’m staying here instead of moving to a dorm room.
I’m glad of that, even though it means risking his temper flare-ups. I’d rather deal with him than Quinton. Or, maybe worse, a surprise visit from Aspen.
Shit.
The memory of her makes me remember the phone. It’s still safely tucked away under the mattress when I check for it. The door’s closed—I don’t hear Lucas in the living area, so he’s probably still at his desk. I should be safe to check it.
I power it up while pulling clothes on, and by the time I’m finished, the home screen pops up. I have a text. My heart jumps into my throat before I glance toward the door again, just in case.
Preston: Thinking about it. You need to be friends with her. Get closer. Make her trust you.