Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Her eyes give nothing away.
I can barely tell what she’s thinking, if she’s fascinated or disgusted or marveling at the sight of the art on my body.
“When did you get this?” she asks, referring to the bleeding heart. “What does it mean?”
“It’s, um…just a symbol for how I put my heart and soul into everything I do. I never half-arse anything. I always give my full arse.”
That makes her laugh, eyes lighting up. She bites down on her bottom lip as if she’s feeling shy. Still, her hands never stray from my skin.
Georgia suddenly has this look on her face I can’t describe or identify as she inches closer to get a better look at me. It’s like she’s trying to memorize the lines in my face. Her hand moves from my clavicle and my chest up to my face, hovering centimeters from my cheekbone.
“Is it okay if I touch you here?” she wants to know.
I’m not sure what she’s asking, because she’s already been touching me this entire time. But maybe she thinks somehow touching me on the face is more intimate than touching my chest. Either way, I’m okay with it.
“Sure.” I hold my breath.
The fingers that were running along my collarbone are now running along the scar on the side of my face. Thumb and forefinger. Georgie’s eyebrows rise for real when she brushes over the gash at the corner of my mouth, the one I earned in last week’s game that bled and was sore for days.
“Did this hurt?”
Goddamn right it did.
I chuckle. “Not as bad as the one I got last year, when a cleat caught me in the corner of the eye.” But that faded, thank god, and didn’t leave a scar.
Her mouth forms a little O of surprise. “You got kicked in the face by a shoe?”
That’s what a cleat is, yeah. “It happens.”
She leans in closer, so close I can feel her tits pressed against my chest. “I cannot believe it didn’t leave a scar.”
“There’s a tiny one, barely noticeable. Then again, I have scars on top of scars, so who can even tell what’s what.”
“I can’t believe they don’t make you wear helmets.”
Me either, sometimes. Rugby is fucking dangerous.
Fun, but dangerous.
Georgia’s forefinger traces my eyebrow. “Have you ever had a concussion?”
“Several.”
She hums in disappointment, lips pursing in displeasure. “They should make you wear helmets.”
“I don’t think one would fit on my head.”
She rolls her eyes. “Are you saying you have an inflated ego?”
“You don’t think I do?”
“Not at all.” She scoffs at me. “Not even a little.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Georgia pulls her head back to look me in the eye. “In a world where every guy just wants to get laid and acts like a douchebag, no—it’s not a bad thing. It’s a good thing. Why would you think that?”
I shrug. “I get a lot of shite because of the accent. I think some people mistake it for me being pompous.”
“Pompous.” She giggles. “Proper, but not an ass.”
“You’re proper too, you know.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” she seems to purr, still only inches from my face. “You think I’m a good girl?”
I inhale another breath, her words holding a bit of daring.
A challenge to agree with her statement, her wanting to prove me wrong.
I’m not going to, though. I’m not going to say a word. I’m just going to let her believe what she wants to believe instead of starting this conversation with her.
The truth is I do think she’s a good person despite the rocky start we had. And I understand why she did it, because I understand what peer pressure feels like.
I know now that she’s not a shallow person; she’s funny and upbeat.
She’s kind and generous and sweet.
And speaking of sweet, her breath smells like peppermint. Her skin smells like almonds and shea butter—the same lotion she left on the kitchen counter yesterday that I rubbed on my arms thinking it was hand cream.
“I think you’re a good person, yes.” I swallow, not wanting to use the phrase good girl—it somehow feels too sexy and intimate and I highly doubt she’d be pleased.
I don’t think most young women appreciate being called girls, or cute, or nice. Or good.
Makes them feel dull and boring, though that’s not at all what it means.
“Good person,” she repeats, letting out a breath. “So not the bratty asshole you met at the rugby house?”
“I don’t hold that against you. You have to let that go. Unless, of course…” I look her over. “You plan on hazing someone again.”
“No!” she hastens to say. “I would never—shouldn’t have to begin with, you know that. That’s not me and I haven’t hung out with those girls from my team since.”
I noticed she separated herself from them but wasn’t sure of the exact reason. I had my suspicions, and now they’ve been confirmed.