Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
He’s not judgy about it. Just asks, “Did you know they would pay you?”
I shake my head. “Nah,” I say. “I don’t know if I would’ve done it if I did. But, not gonna lie, it was the easiest cash I’d ever earned.”
“And you were eighteen.” He hangs on to this part of the story.
“Looked older,” I admit. “I’d been to the gym a ton.”
“You were still a kid.”
I wince. “Nah, eighteen is a legal adult. But I left home when I was just a kid.”
“Don’t remind me,” Lo says sharply. “Because it does make me want to commit murder.”
“My grandmom is already dead, so you’re gonna have to find a time machine.”
“She’s probably not worth the jail time,” Lo says casually.
“She isn’t. She wasn’t,” I agree.
He knows she was my neglectful guardian when my parents were in prison. And a part of me hurts because I should be talking about all this with Luna rather than her dad, but it’s easier talking to him ‘cause I’m not dating him.
I can’t break his heart. He can’t really break mine.
And it feels good sharing with him. Maybe ‘cause talking to her dad absolves me of the guilt of not telling her yet.
“If you need—” Lo’s voice is cut short as we both shoot to our feet.
No…no fucking way.
Our defense (never said a bad word about ‘em) just grabbed the ball after a fumble. Ten seconds left on the clock.
He runs.
He runs farther.
And farther.
He makes it to the endzone.
A pick 6.
A pick fucking 6!
Lo cheers, and we’re somehow hugging. I’m screaming so hard my lungs hurt. I can’t believe it.
The Eagles win the Super Bowl.
37
LUNA HALE
I can’t sleep. The colorful swirls on my ceiling don’t ease my mind like they usually do, so I lean over to my nightstand and smack a hand on the galaxy projector. It shuts off instantly, and the room darkens.
My brain does not shut off with the lights.
I keep thinking about him.
Donnelly.
The Super Bowl.
We came back to the penthouse after the game, and I pumped myself up for some epic, earth-shattering sex. I thought there was at least an eighty-five percent chance we’d cross the finish line this time. But I am not Jane Cobalt because my math was waaaaaay off.
Donnelly and I kissed and felt each other up for point-five seconds before he got a call from SFE. They wanted to “strategize” about the Fizzle mock panel, so he had to leave, and he didn’t return to the penthouse until one in the morning.
Yes, I was still awake when he came home.
No, he didn’t come to my bedroom like a sex god ready to claim my pussy in front of the imperial elite on my home planet.
He didn’t come to my bedroom at all.
Which is strange.
We’ve slept in the same bed nearly every night since Christmas Eve. Whether it’s his room or my room, we’ll crawl beneath the sheets, and he’ll hold me against his chest. I’ll curl up in the warmth of his strong arms and the sweet, sexy embrace. Spooning while falling asleep is dangerous territory, which might be why it’s my favorite.
He gets me off just about every night, and I’ve grown to crave him in my mouth and to see him come.
I was staring up at my makeshift galaxy in anticipation, but it’s slowly morphed into utter disappointment. And I shouldn’t feel disappointed that Donnelly didn’t bang on my door at 1 a.m. He probably thought I was in a deep hibernating sleep, especially since I have class with Professor Rochester tomorrow.
I groan just thinking about that stressor. No. I really don’t want to trade in thoughts about Donnelly for thoughts about Wyatt Rochester.
So I replay the exact moment when Donnelly received the Epsilon phone call. He grinded forward into a deeper kiss, his hand kneading my breast, and I gripped the back of his head. My fingers threaded the soft strands of his hair. I melted under the weight of his body and how his muscles flexed with each tiny shift of our legs, each sultry kiss.
Then the phone rang. Little wrinkles creased his brow as he patted around the comforter for his cell. I couldn’t read his facial expressions during the call. But his six-three build began to tense, and his usual light gaze went heavy.
“I’ve gotta go to an SFE meeting.” He kissed me one more time, then climbed off the bed, scrounging around for his pants. “See you later?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “See ya.” The dumbest reply of the century! I should have asked, “What do you mean by later? Later tonight? Or later tomorrow?” Or I should have said, “Paul Donnelly, please define the definition of ‘later’ for someone not of your species.”
You know what—I think Epsilon called him away on purpose just to fuck with him. Why else would they have a meeting the night the Eagles win the Super Bowl? The mock panel is two weeks away!