Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
He opens the door enough to reveal his face, six inches of chest, and his still-straining erection. “No.”
“What are you even going to do with it?” I splutter.
His smile turns downright evil. “You’ll never know.” And he closes the door in my face.
CHAPTER 7
TRISTAN
It’s been two days since I stole Beat’s vibrator. I thought I was going to lose my fucking mind listening to her moaning and writhing above me. But stealing it didn’t make things better. The thing was covered in her pussy juice. It was all over my hand. I may have used my pillowcase to clean it off. And huffed it while I slept.
I have a problem. And her name is Beatrix.
I can hear her in the kitchen. It’s after nine. I’ve been up for an hour. Flip is at some endorsement thing Hemi forced on him to help bolster his reputation. She wanted me to come too, but I told her my brother had a game. Flip’s bad reputation is not my issue to solve.
I feel shitty that I used my brother in a lie, but I’ve been off the bunny circuit since Hemi reamed us out. Besides, I don’t want Beat listening to what happens in my damn bedroom. Her being here has allowed me a slight reprieve from all the performing. So I guess it isn’t all bad. Plus, she makes kickass food, and she’s exceptionally organized, helpful, and generally sweet when she isn’t dealing with me.
I listen to Beat move around, wondering what she’s making. Probably something delicious. I’d bet my left nut she’s not wearing a bra. Maybe she’ll be wearing those tiny sleep shorts. Or that nightshirt from two nights ago that barely covers her ass.
I should definitely not leave my bedroom to find out. I roll over and shove my face into my pillow.
The smell is fading, but I breathe deep anyway.
I’m such a sick fuck.
And I’m pissed off.
As nice as it’s been to have a clean house, amazing meals, and an incredible financial planner around, I need her to move out.
I need her out of my space and my head.
I need…to stop thinking about her in ways that will screw everything up.
I roll onto my back. She’s humming a tune. She can sing. It’s another item on the list of things about her that frustrates me. I roll out of bed, feet hitting the floor with a thud. I stalk across my room, already unreasonably angry. Mostly at myself. I grab the doorknob and fight not to open it. But I yank the door open with so much force it dents the drywall.
She startles but doesn’t turn around, which irritates me more. If she’s not ignoring me, she’s taking shots at me. I don’t want her here, and I’m uncomfortably aware of her at all times. There’s no happy medium with us.
She’s wearing my favorite sleep shorts again. And a tank top. No bra lines, as predicted. She’s all curves and softness. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail. I don’t know why the graceful slope of her neck is so alluring, but I want to wrap my hands around it and feel her pulse thrum under my palms. I want to hear her make those desperate, needy sounds again, but for me this time.
Yeah. I’m so fucked.
I should have gone out last night and gotten laid.
I should have brought someone home and fucked them while she was trying to sleep above me.
I should have, but I couldn’t.
Just another item to add to the piss-me-off list.
I stalk across the kitchen and yank open the drawer two inches from her right hip. I grab a spatula and a mixing bowl and slap them on the counter beside her. Then I open the drawer to her left and grab a fork. She’s made a tray of bacon, there’s a platter of cut fruit, blueberry muffins fresh from the oven—my fucking favorite—and she’s busy making some kind of yogurt thing, probably to dip the fruit in. Everything she makes tastes amazing and is balanced and healthy.
She keeps everything in top form around here, she continually asks if we need anything. I’m always an asshole. I don’t want to get used to having her around. Or worse, like having her here. So I say something shitty, and she dishes it right back. Like she’s on to me. Because she is.
I’m in a fury trying to make some eggs. Something to take care of myself and not indulge in whatever she’s made. Even I don’t understand what I’m doing as I get closer and closer to her. I keep reaching around her. My erection nudges her ass when I get too close.
Everything feels out of control. Like a play gone wrong and I can’t recover. I’m pissed. At Flip. At Hollis. At Beat. At those perfect little shorts.