Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“Well, I should go.” I feel myself almost tearing up. I hate to admit that I actually was starting to hope that he was interested.
Pathetic.
Sebastian gives me a curious sort of look, then steps closer to me. “You look good in my clothes on, Ashlynn,” he says, voice low.
“Thanks.” I try and sound casual.
He steps closer still. He leans his head down, and my stomach clenches; I rise up onto my toes before I think twice about what I’m doing. “I think you’d look good without my clothes on, too,” he says.
“Thanks,” I repeat again, realizing that maybe I was right the first time.
Because he’s looking like he’s going to kiss me.
And my heart feels like it’s going to burst through my ribcage with it’s pounding.
I inhale a deep trembling breath as his mouth comes down closer. His breath smells sweet, his skin is flawless, the five o’clock shadow sexy and so-touchable. He’s going to kiss me, and I want it so, so badly— I want to kiss this football player, so badly. There’s a phrase I never expected to think.
He mouth meets mine, and I feel a series of explosions in my chest as his soft, strong lips press against me, hungry and searching, his tongue brushing against my bottom lip. I go unsteady, taking a balancing step backward, too stunned and dazzled and overwhelmed to fully take it all in.
“Right,” Sebastian says, drawing back swiftly, frowning. All the parts of my body he was touching go chilly, now that he’s gone, and I blink, unsure what’s just happened.
“Anyway, keep the jersey. I’ve got others.” His voice has gone almost icy— what happened? I blink again, sure I’ve either hallucinated the kiss, or am actively hallucinating this moment.
“Wait,” I say faintly. “I—“
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Sebastian cuts me off stiffly. I try to shake my head and object, but my body doesn’t seem to move— and that’s when I realize why Sebastian thinks I’m not interested.
He kissed me, and I didn’t kiss him back. I stood there, enjoying it, reveling in the taste of his mouth, but I didn’t kiss him back, or touch him, or respond. Christ, it was probably like kissing Snow White.
He opens the bedroom door and stands in the threshold, waiting for me to cut through. I swallow, too unhinged to say anything, too worried I won’t be able to say something even if I try. So, I stoop, gather my Papa Pig’s uniform, and shuffle past him, throat thick and eyes swimming.
I didn’t kiss him back. I wanted to, but I just stood there. Surely he knows he has that effect on women? I can’t be the first girl who hasn’t flung herself at him, if only on account of some kind of situational paralysis.
My body seems to unfreeze as I make my way down the steps, through the house, back to my car. I consider, even, turning around and rushing back to his room, to give kissing him another try— but he looked so cold. By the time I make it to my car, my body and mind are fully functioning again. Which means I’m perfectly able to berate myself for the ride back to Papa Pig’s.
The hottest guy you’ve ever met, who was turned on by you, who gave you his clothes, who took you to his room— that guy tried to kiss you. And you blew it.
3
I call my boss and offer the most classic of excuses as to why I can’t finish my shift that evening: Lady trouble. My (male) boss immediately tells me to go home, quick, and to take Sudafed. I thank him profusely rather than asking him what, exactly, he thought Sudafed did for “lady trouble”.
Truthfully, I would probably have jetted back to my apartment and changed if the pizza-catastrophe was the only disaster of the evening.
Given what happened with Sebastian, though, I want to go home and replay the moment where he kissed me over and over, both so I can remember it, and so I can hate myself for botching it. I’ve never been kissed like that. I never even knew just kissing could make me feel like that.
My roommates— there are three of them in the suite— are home, watching trash television with largely untouched textbooks spread out on the coffee table in front of them. They swivel their heads towards the door in surprise when I walk in.
“You’re home early,” Maddy says. “Wait— oh my god, what are you wearing?” She looks delighted, which doesn’t surprise me— Maddy is easily delighted by anything that might be the teeniest bit scandalous. I haven’t known any of my roommates very long; we were all strangers when we moved in together. We get along nicely, though— we clearly have varied enough interests that we’re not going to be besties, but we get lunch together now and again, and no one is stingy about letting someone else borrow shoes or bronzer.