Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Yet I love it because Brody makes me feel so secure and cherished, even as he’s ravishing my body.
“Your curves are absolutely beautiful,” he whispered in my ear after our first round. I was panting with my face buried in the mattress, unable to move. His seed was leaking from my bottom, but I loved feeling the hot trail of slime edge down my thigh. Even more, Brody’s a dirty asshole, and he gently pressed a kiss to my bottom hole before wiggling his tongue in that dirty space.
“Brody!” I squealed. “OMG, what are you doing?”
He grinned devilishly.
“Just tasting your ass musk. It’s got a coating of seed on it, so it’s particularly good right now.”
I gasped, eyes wide.
“But that’s your own seed,” I whispered. “Do you like it?”
My man shrugged, so confident about himself.
“You’re right. Eating seed isn’t exactly the most alpha thing ever, but I don’t really care if it’s dripping from one of your sweet holes, baby. Again, it has your special ass tang to it,” he smirked wickedly.
I gasped again with shock, but then dissolved into a puddle of utter warmth because this man and I are on the same wavelength, meaning that our minds are always in the gutter. It’s a perfect match, if I do say so myself, and I giggle again while letting myself into my dorm suite. Neither Morgan nor Katrina are home, thank god, so the space is blessedly silent as I head to my room.
But my giddy laughter is cut short the second I unlock my room door because my room has been completely ransacked! My curtains have been torn to shreds and lie on the ground like scraps of used Kleenex. My white bedding now has all kinds of disgusting brown stains on it, and I seriously wonder if it’s shit, given the powerful odor. Plus, my desk has been upended, the legs sticking in the air like a beetle on its back, and my clothes are on the ground in messy heaps. I’m paralyzed with shock, but I wouldn’t be surprised if all of my outfits have been cut to ribbons so that they’re unwearable.
“What?” I gasp. “Who did this?”
But that’s when I see the writing on the wall. Someone’s literally scrawled the word “SLUT’ in big bold letters on the wall behind my desk. It looks like it’s done in lipstick too, and sure enough, when I lean in to smell it, there’s the scent of cherries. Doesn’t Morgan use a special scented lipstick from some fancy brand? She definitely goes for a red lip at least three days a week.
I don’t even know how to react as I stare at my destroyed room, shaking with shock as tears begin sliding down my cheeks. In my heart, I know that it had to be Morgan and Katrina. There’s literally no one else who would bother or care, come to think of it. Plus, those two have always had it out for me although I’m not sure why.
But what proof do I have? None. The lipstick thing probably isn’t solid evidence because lots of people wear scented lipstick. Even if I stole a tube and got it taken to the lab to be analyzed, what would that prove? Nothing. Plus, Morgan and Katrina are the only ones who know that I hooked up with Santa over break, so they’re the only ones who would even feel justified in calling me a slut. To the rest of the world, I come off as shy, and even nerdy. Slut definitely isn’t the first adjective that pops into mind when you see me.
But still, my suspicions are just a feeling, and I have nothing solid to go on. Even if I made accusations, it would just be my word against theirs, and that’s nothing. As a result, Morgan and Katrina will probably pretend surprise, and evade any consequences.
Hot tears rush down my cheeks as I stand there shaking, terrified and anguished at once. What do I do? How do I deal with this? I sink to my knees, reaching for my phone.
7
BRODY
Cleo has hardly said two words to me ever since I showed up three hours ago. She called me crying and sobbing, and I could barely understand what she was saying at first.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” I rumbled over the phone. “Start over, and tell me again.”
By the time the story was done, I already had my keys in hand and was flying out the door. Now, I’m helping Cleo move out of her room because obviously, she can’t stay in this shithole. Fortunately, the housing office had an opening in a nearby dorm, and as a result, we’re hauling her stuff there.
Yet, I feel terrible for the sweet girl. She’s obviously extremely distressed by the way she constantly fumbles with the endless boxes and suitcases. Not only that, but Cleo keeps looking behind her shoulder every few minutes, as if someone will pop up behind her for a terrible surprise.