Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 21101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
I’m temporarily blinded by the stage lights, which is why I don’t see her right away.
But when I take my seat and the lights are refocused on the host, the redhead materializes ten yards away and sound fades out around me. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine and I have an immediate case of dry mouth. Jesus, what a looker.
That face.
Those tits, too…but God, that face. It belongs to an angel.
She catches me staring and flips her red hair over a shoulder, raising an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Not in your wildest dreams, motherfucker.”
My dick plumps in my slacks. So rapidly, I have to widen my already extensive manspread to accommodate the growth. I’ve gotten a million hard-ons in my life, but I’ve never had one that spread to my chest. Yeah, my heart seems to have a boner? Is that a thing?
She’s just so beautiful. Those blue eyes are confident and scared all at once. She’s got her chin up and a smirk on her face, but there’s a tremor in her fingers. Why does that make me want to vault over this table and wrap her in a bear hug?
I don’t hug.
I tackle, wrestle, dive to block a puck.
That’s what I do.
Hating to take my eyes off her for a second, I nonetheless snatch up the scoring card so I can find out her name. Lola, 18, Las Vegas, showgirl.
Eighteen?
Fuck me, that’s young.
There’s knowledge in her eyes that makes her seem a lot more mature. Or is that just wishful thinking because I’m hotter than fuck for this female?
The teeth of my pants zipper are leaving an imprint on my hard cock, my palms chafe up and down my thighs. I want to touch her. I want to lift her stubborn, little chin and tell her if she’s scared about something to…knock it off. Toughen up.
That doesn’t seem like the right thing to say. Not at all. But I’m not the best at speaking to women. There were none of them around growing up and I don’t have time for them now. Men in my position have to be careful not to get in bed with a gold digger. When a player is drafted by the NHL, he has to go through a whole training course about protecting one’s assets from opportunistic people. I figured, why risk it?
I might as well stay away from women altogether.
I don’t want to stay away from this one. Hell no.
If she wants to dig for gold, so be it. I’ll give it to her. She’s making me so fucking horny, just standing there in her white, ruffled apron and pouty mouth. God help me if they make me stand up on camera. I’d decapitate someone with this stiffy.
Lola shakes her head at me.
I smile back, even though it tugs at my black eye.
“Mr. Tulane,” the host says brightly, putting a microphone in my face. “Are you excited to taste some cake today?”
“Damn right.” I scratch at my day-old beard, continuing to grin at Lola. “The red one.”
The host sputters. “You mean…red velvet?”
I wink at Lola. “Sure.”
Maybe I should be scared of the sparks snapping in her blue eyes, but I can only groan in anticipation of what’s to come. Because Lola, 18, Las Vegas, showgirl is going to be mine.
Mine.
2
Lola
I am two seconds from hurling this batter-covered whisk at the judges’ table, where it hopefully clocks Aiden “the Brooklyn Brawler” Tulane right between his amused gray eyes. That’s right. I know who he is. Many a viral video featuring Aiden and his famous fists have made their way to my iPhone screen. He’s known as a hothead. A goon.
Why won’t he stop staring at me?
Why are my nipples throbbing?
I do my best to ignore him and focus on my cake layers. At best, this red velvet cake is going to be a complete monstrosity and I’m just trying to get through it with my pride intact. A smug smile is cemented on my face, my spine is straight and I’m laughing at whatever dumb jokes the host directs at me. I’m fine. I’m fine.
Never let them see you cry.
By “them” I mean the cluster of mean girls in the audience behind me. I knew there would be some hazing when I became the youngest member of the dance company. I suspected the hazing would be pretty terrible when the director made me a featured dancer, with a singing part and everything. So why did I trust them? When my fellow dancers said they were bringing me to New York for a shopping trip to celebrate my success, I decided to trust them. Just because I was raised to be a skeptic didn’t mean people were all bad, right?
Wrong. Now I’m sweating it out in front of a camera and that man—that devil—won’t stop stripping me with his eyes.