Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Social normalcies say we should have hooked up years ago. I mean, star quarterback and the gorgeous cheer captain? That Hollywood script writes itself. And yet, it’s never happened.
…But that’s about to change.
Yeah, I know the stories. I know how every other guy in school, however much they want her, won’t even attempt to pick her up. I mean, the purveying thought is basically “how the fuck do you compete with some of the guys she’s apparently been dating”? Kempton Carlisle isn’t just high school royalty. She’s like a notch or ten above that. She dates men twice our age—rich guys with boats and shit. Industry tycoons. I’ve even heard about her dating a prince or some shit.
Every guy at Winchester, no matter how many notches they’ve got on their belt or how easy it is for them to get laid at weekend parties, is essentially scared of Kempton Carlisle.
…Every guy except me.
It’s not that I’m cockier, or more arrogant than them. It’s not that I’m braver or any of that shit. It’s just that I don’t fucking care. I’ve had my eye on Kempton for longer than I care to even admit, and I’ve wanted her for just as long. We travel in the same social circles of course. We’ve talked, and bantered, and even flirted.
And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of watching her breath catch when I move close to her, only for her to leave at the end of the night alone, without me. I’m tired of watching her lip catch when I talk to her, my eyes locked on hers, unflinchingly. I’m tired of watching her soft pink tongue dart out to wet those pouty lips without me tasting them. I’m tired of watching her on the sidelines at practice or at games, that tight little body undulating and bouncing, and twirling around, like fucking bait on a stick right in front of my nose, without me reaching out to take it.
I’m tired of moving in slow motion. I’m tired of wanting her and not doing anything about. I’m tired of Kempton Carlisle not being mine. It’s like an itch that’s been building. A paper cut I can’t stop picking at. A scorching need that’s been burning up inside of me to the point of fucking madness. And I don’t know what changes tonight when I see her, but when I do spot her across the room, and when our eyes lock, I just know.
…I know I’m done playing games with her. I know I’m done dancing around this. I’m done not claiming her mouth with mine, or not hearing her moan as I pull her against me, or not tasting her when I pull her little panties away from her sweet little pussy with my teeth.
I don’t give a fuck who she’s dated—football captains, rich married guys, or princes. Because none of those guys are me, and it’s time Kempton realizes that. The fact that she’s not someone’s wife right now tells me none of those men deserved her. None of them could throw her around, hold her close, or pin her to the bed while fucking her exactly like a little wildcat like her deserves and needs to be fucked. And I know damn well none of them could give her a cock like mine.
So fuck the stories. Fuck the past. And when our eyes lock there across the room of Justin Lowe’s party, I know I’m done with the games. Maybe it’s the special brand of courage that comes from being football royalty in a school where there are the children of actual royalty. Maybe it’s that pretty much everyone else here is ten years older than us, and that’s giving me some sort of perspective on where life takes you. Maybe I’m just done with high school and all dumb games that come with it.
Or maybe it’s just that I’m done going another fucking second without Kempton Carlisle being mine. But whatever it is, when I move for her, I move with a purpose. I watch her two friends—Justin’s little sister, Kara, and Ramona Weiss—scurry away, and I smile hungrily.
Kempton holds my gaze, her baby blues burning right into mine unflinchingly, her cheeks flushing just a little red as I storm through the crowd right for her.
“Isn’t it a school night?”
She smirks. “Oh, do you not have to go to school living off campus?”
“Now that sounds like jealousy. How are the dorms, anyways? Having a roommate? Sharing a bathroom? Not having a car?”
She pursues her lips together for a second, and I smirk on the inside. I know that’s a sore spot for most students at boarding school. With the family wealth and status of most students at Winchester, sharing a room and not having a maid to pick up after you is actually a sore spot. And I’m betting Kempton is no exception.