Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Making out in my driveway wasn’t the plan, but her lips are warm and I’m starving for her—been starving for her all weekend, and no amount of texting or sexting or FaceTime was going to slake my appetite.
When I pull back, all I can think about is, “A giant fucking sandwich with everything on it.”
“Maybe some cherry pie for dessert,” she breathlessly adds, touching a mitten to her lips where my mouth just was.
Cherry pie…was that an innuendo?
Landing another peck to her pretty mouth, I step down off the running board, shut her door, and jog around to the driver’s side.
“God,” I groan. “I haven’t eaten anything since five o’clock this morning.”
I start the engine, letting it hum.
“Five this morning? What were you doing up so early?”
“Lifting.” My biceps flex as if on command.
“Lifting what?”
“Um, weights?” I laugh, amused, the sound filling the cab of the truck. “We work out during the week and check in with our trainers so we’re not lazy pieces of shit when the season starts. Some guys really let themselves go in the off season.”
“Getting up that early would kill me.”
“Not an early riser?”
“I’d be lying if I said I was.”
“You get used to it.” Sort of.
We reach Tenth Street, my eyes scanning the road for a curbside parking space. I find one, paralleling park the truck like a goddamn professional driver.
I don’t have time to make it around to Scarlett’s side of the truck; she hops out and onto the sidewalk before I can unbuckle myself, already waiting on the curb when I slide myself out.
Looking both ways, it’s slightly exhilarating bolting across the street with her by my side, grabbing her hand. I manage to reach the front door first. Open it for Scarlett and usher her through with a magnanimous gesture from my palm.
My mother taught me some manners.
We grab a table in the corner, and the place is far enough from campus that it’s not busy. The likelihood that we’ll bump into anyone? Slim to none, thank fucking God.
“I already know what I want.” She shakes her head, declining a menu when the waitress comes to take our order. “Whatever your soup of the day is, I’d love a bowl of that. And a banana nut muffin. Oh! A hot chocolate, too, please, with lots of whipped cream.”
I stare down at my menu, studying the photographs one by one, undecided. Then, “Give me the pita with everything, extra roast beef please. Mayo, mustard, oil. No tomatoes. Lots of lettuce, and I’ll take extra fries with my fries.” I close the menu and hand it back. “I’ll stick with water and a cup of whatever soup she’s having.”
The girl scribbles on her pad, sneaking furtive glances at me beneath her lashes. She’s definitely a student and definitely recognizes me; I wonder if she’ll ask me to confirm my identity later, or if she’ll leave us the fuck alone to talk in peace.
Then, Scarlett does one of my favorite things: stands to remove her coat.
I don’t know what it is about this gesture that gets me excited, but it does, probably because she’s taking off clothes—any clothes, it doesn’t matter to me.
She’s sliding down the zipper and I intently watch it part, anticipation thrumming my chest. Man, I love when she peels her jackets down her shoulders, revealing whatever she’s got on underneath.
The tight shirt does not disappoint, hugging her fantastic rack. Her slender hips sport black leggings tucked into leather boots.
Scarlett plucks her hat off, finger-combing her hair until it’s smooth. It falls in straight sheets, a stark contrast against her crisp shirt. I watch her bend to shove the hat in her jacket pocket before plopping her tight ass back into her chair.
Mine.
And I’d be remiss not to notice her boobs bouncing when she seats herself.
I shake my head to center myself.
Focus, dammit.
“I want to clarify the conversation we had the other night, since we never really finished it.” It’s been eating away at me, niggling my mind—mostly because I want to fuck her so goddamn bad. “You know, the sex talk.”
I pluck a pink sugar packet from the metal holder in the center of the table and roll it between the pads of my fingers. Tap it on the tabletop to busy my hands, folding back the corners.
My knee bounces under the table.
“Which sex talk? The one we had at my house, or the one we had this weekend when you texted me a picture of your rock hard…bat?”
No, I did not send her a dick pic. She is literally talking about the vintage Louisville Slugger my parents gave me when I signed with Iowa.
“The one where we discussed being responsible about it instead of having it.” My nostrils flare.
“Oh that sex talk.” She shifts in her seat, right leg crossed over her left knee.