Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
“And y-you won’t?”
“No,” he rasps. “I’ll fuck you.”
“What’s”—I have to catch my breath here—“the difference?”
“The difference is that I want to stretch your pink little pussy out and mold it to the shape of my dick. So that only I get to fuck it. I want to rip that cherry from you and wear it on my dick like a badge of honor. The difference is that I don’t just want to pop that fresh cherry and fuck it out of you. I want to fuck you every day. Every night. I want to fuck you until I don’t want to fuck you anymore. I want to use you to get off and get you off and then leave. Like I wanted to do when I was blackmailing you. So yeah, you should stay a virgin,” he growls. “For that asshole. As if he already doesn’t have everything because he gets to spend his godforsaken life with you. But I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to like the fact that he gets you while I don’t. So again, no. I don’t think it’s inappropriate because I don’t have any space left in my brain to think about that when all of it is taken up by my personal fucking Lolita.”
I am that.
I am his Lolita.
And he wants me. He wants me so badly.
Sometimes I think he wants me more than I want him. And that’s saying something because all I’ve done is want him since the moment I saw him. All I’ve done is live lifetimes in the year that I’ve wanted him.
So why can’t I have him? Why can’t he have me?
What’s stopping us again?
“So you’re going to stop flirting with the guys,” he continues. “Or making them watch shitty fucking movies, is that clear? I’m already walking on broken glass every fucking minute of every fucking day that I have to see you with him. I will not sit there and watch you be the ray of sunshine that you are that other guys fight to bask in, is that clear? I will not be subjected to it and I will not allow it. Or trust me when I say each one of those guys will be running drills until the end of time.”
“Okay,” I agree hastily. “I-I won’t.”
He breathes for a few seconds.
Then, in response, he tucks his thumb under my strap again and pulls it up, sliding it back into place on my shoulder. Reaching forward, he presses that button again and gets the elevator going. When it reaches our floor, I’m the first to alight and walk down the hallway. I feel him behind me, but I don’t look back, and when I get into my room, I shut the door and press my back against it before sliding down to the floor and hiding my face in my knees.
Wondering once again, what the fuck is stopping us.
The answer to that—among other things—is my mother.
Who, as she promised, calls me every day.
Mostly to remind me of her threat. Sometimes she berates me for my dress choices. Sometimes she tells me that I was standing a little too close to another player on the team during the press conference or sometimes she simply tells me off for no reason other than the fact that she loves to tear me down.
But no matter what she says, I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to toe the line.
Which is fine because I have no intention of doing anything inappropriate.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been to enough victory parties on the road that I know what to expect. Large crowds, loud music, lots of booze—I don’t think players drink a lot, though, because they’re all on a strict regimen, but still—and adrenaline. I also know that, like the players, I won’t be touching a drop of that booze. Thanks to my self-appointed bodyguard who frowns upon everything fun.
Including dancing.
I haven’t tried doing that, though. Mostly because in my heart of hearts, the only person I want to dance with is the one who hates dancing. And even though I know he’ll let me dance with my fiancé if I wanted to, I just don’t want to put him through that.
Which, again if we’re being honest, has to the most twisted thing ever.
That I won’t dance with my fiancé because I don’t want to make his twin brother jealous. I won’t even flirt with my fiancé or laugh with him like I used to. I won’t hold hands with him or indulge in any public displays of affection with him. All because I know his twin brother won’t like it.
And my fiancé has tried to get me to do all that too.
Despite staying on two different floors and always being too busy to spend any one-on-one time with me, Shepard has tried to be openly affectionate with me. He has tried to hold hands or include me in jokes. He’s tried to be goofy with me, but I’ve more or less pulled back each time.